A Casualty

That boy I took in the car last night,      With the body that awfully sagged away,      And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright,      And the poor hands folded and cold as clay -      Oh, I've thought and I've thought of him all the day.      For the weary old doctor says to me:      "He'll only last for an hour or so.      Both of his legs below the knee      Blown off by a bomb. . . . So, lad, go slow,      And please remember, he doesn't know."      So I tried to drive with never a jar;      And there was I cursing the road like mad,      When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car:      "Tell me, old chap, have I 'copped it' bad?"      So I answers "No," and he says, "I'm glad."      "Glad," says he, "for at twenty-two      Life's so splendid, I hate to go.      There's so much good that a chap might do,      And I've fought from the start and I've suffered so.      'Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know."      "Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile,      And I passed him a cheery word or two;      But he didn't answer for many a mile,      So just as the hospital hove in view,      Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?"      Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me;      And he takes my hand in his trembling hold;      "Thank you - you're far too kind," says he:      "I'm awfully comfy - stay . . . let's see:      I fancy my blanket's come unrolled -      My feet, please wrap 'em - they're cold . . . they're cold."