The press-gang

The summer sun was sinking low As I went up and down, To find a place where I might rest Within Chekäo’s town.

The Royal Press-gang, at that hour, Came up the self-same way, Who in the time of darkness make The sons of men their prey.

An old man saw, and fled in haste, Vaulting the village gate; From the same house an aged crone Marched out to meet them straight.

Their leader shouted in his wrath,— How savage were his tones! The woman poured her sorrow forth With shrill and bitter moans:—

Quoth she—“Mark well the words of her Who cometh at your call: Three sons I had, the Emperor’s camp Has now devoured them all.

From the last left a letter came, To say his brothers twain On the same battle-field were laid, Among the heaps of slain.

Not long can he elude Death’s grasp, Who liveth yet in gloom; And for the two, their lot is fixed Unchanging in the tomb.

In our sad house no male is left For war to claim and kill, Except my little grandson, whom His mother suckles still.

That mother would have fled long since,— Fled to return no more,— But that she has not fitting clothes To pass beyond the door.

I have grown very old, my limbs Are wasted now and weak; Still I can follow in your track, And join the camp ye seek.

Among the troops I shall not be Idle or useless there; For I can cook them rice, and well The morning meal prepare.”

On rolled the night—both shouts and screams Died off to silence deep; Still, ever and anon, I heard Choked sobbings round me creep.

But when the morning dawned, and I My journey thence began, Nought living did I leave behind But that forlorn old man.