A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away. The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay. His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite: "Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might. Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare; Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there, And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand. And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name, Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame." They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. "Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die." The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head: "Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said. "Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I; And I will murmur: _VIVE LA FRANCE!_ and bless you ere I die." Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez. He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now! The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this: This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game. "Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give; A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live." They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face; They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; The glory of a million men who for fair France have died, The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . . "Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat. "Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said. Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . _THE PRUSSIAN MAJOR DEAD!_ Going Home I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty--ain't I glad to 'ave the chance! I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France; I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance, For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.