| |
| ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain, | |
| With his swarthy, grave commanders, | |
| I forget in what campaign, | |
| Long besieged, in mud and rain, | |
| Some old frontier town of Flanders. | 5 |
| |
| Up and down the dreary camp, | |
| In great boots of Spanish leather, | |
| Striding with a measured tramp, | |
| These Hidalgos, dull and damp, | |
| Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. | 10 |
| |
| Thus as to and fro they went | |
| Over upland and through hollow, | |
| Giving their impatience vent, | |
| Perched upon the Emperor’s tent, | |
| In her nest, they spied a swallow. | 15 |
| |
| Yes, it was a swallow’s nest, | |
| Built of clay and hair of horses, | |
| Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest, | |
| Found on hedge-rows east and west, | |
| After skirmish of the forces. | 20 |
| |
| Then an old Hidalgo said, | |
| As he twirled his gray mustachio, | |
| “Sure this swallow overhead | |
| Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed, | |
| And the Emperor but a Macho!” | 25 |
| |
| Hearing his imperial name | |
| Coupled with those words of malice, | |
| Half in anger, half in shame, | |
| Forth the great campaigner came | |
| Slowly from his canvas palace. | 30 |
| |
| “Let no hand the bird molest,” | |
| Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her!” | |
| Adding then, by way of jest, | |
| “Golondrina is my guest, | |
| ’T is the wife of some deserter!” | 35 |
| |
| Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, | |
| Through the camp was spread the rumor, | |
| And the soldiers, as they quaffed | |
| Flemish beer at dinner, laughed | |
| At the Emperor’s pleasant humor. | 40 |
| |
| So unharmed and unafraid | |
| Sat the swallow still and brooded, | |
| Till the constant cannonade | |
| Through the walls a breach had made, | |
| And the siege was thus concluded. | 45 |
| |
| Then the army, elsewhere bent, | |
| Struck its tents as if disbanding, | |
| Only not the Emperor’s tent, | |
| For he ordered, ere he went, | |
| Very curtly, “Leave it standing!” | 50 |
| |
| So it stood there all alone, | |
| Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, | |
| Till the brood was fledged and flown, | |
| Singing o’er those walls of stone | |
| Which the cannon-shot had shattered. | 55 |
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