I strolled out to the picket—some thirty were there, With their arms in good order, their eyeballs kept bare— When, an hour before midnight, there came quick and hard The trample of horse charging down on the guard; And we met them—a squadron of dare-devils they— But a sharp edge of bayonets kept them at bay, While we emptied some barrels, with never a corse, Though we wounded one rider and crippled his horse. The rider pitched over; his comrades they heard His yell as he fell; but they turned and they spurred, For by this time our camp was aroused and poured in, And the visitors stayed not their laurels to win; When what does this Hotspur but spring to his feet, And, ready a regiment singly to meet, Draw weapon, and there, right in front of our line, To guard bring his sabre, and cross it with mine. ’Twas a regular duel: our men gathered round; Save the clash of the blades there was never a sound. ’Twas cut, thrust, and parry—the fellow fenced well— But at last on his shoulder a heavy blow fell, And his sword dropped to earth—in an instant he felt With his left for a pistol that hung at his belt, And he fired. O’er my temple the ball ploughed its track, When I tripped him, and threw my bold youth on his back. I said as I held him, “This rage has no use; You’re two-thirds a lion and one-third a goose. Do you want to fight armies! This passes a joke; Surrender at once, or your throttle I’ll choke. Stop the struggling, my madman, and tell us your choice—” “I give my parole.” ’Twas a musical voice, With a rather thin treble. Conceive my annoy When I found I had wasted my strength on a boy. ’Twas a boy of sixteen, with his lip free of down, Whose ball cut a groove ’twixt my temple and crown, And who handled his sabre as deftly and keen As a master of fence. Yes, a boy of sixteen. And I said, as I looked on him there where he stood, Defiant, though conquered, and dauntless in mood, “You crow well, my cockerel, ere you have spurs; Has your mother more such in that rare brood of hers?” Then he laughed, and his forefinger rose, as he said, “You carry the mark of my spur on your head— Who’ll give me a drink?” as at word of command A dozen canteens were thrust ready to hand; But ere he could choose, from his features there shrank The blood till he paled, then he staggered and sank. We raised him; I stooped there and pillowed his head On my knee; and I shivered—I thought he was dead.