by Kingston
My sire, strong hero with a saint-like smile,
Attended by a warrior whom he loved
Both for his prowess, and his god-like form,
On horseback rode when evening closed a fight.
The field was covered with the stricken dead.
Sudden he thought he heard a feeble sound.
It was a Spaniard of the conquered foe,
Who in the shadows trailed his bleeding form,
Battered and bruised, and only half alive,
He cried: "Give water, for the love of Heaven!"
Straightway my father to the warrior gave
His spirit-bottle from his saddle-bow,
And said: "Go, give that poor worn sufferer drink."
But at that moment that his follower stooped
To do his bidding, this same demi-Moor
Upraised a pistol which he feebly clutched,
Fired at my father's head and cried: "My curse."
So close the bullet sped, his very hat
Fell off, his charger plunged, and backward reared.
"No matter, give him drink," my father said.