I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly....
- for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet
And telling me... that but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
Comments
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly....
- for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet
And telling me... that but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.