The Dead-Beat

He dropped,--more sullenly than wearily,         Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,         And none of us could kick him to his feet;         Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;      --Didn't appear to know a war was on,         Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.         "I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared,         I'll murder them, I will."                                     A low voice said,         "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,         Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead:         Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;         Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun         In some new home, improved materially.         It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."         We sent him down at last, out of the way.         Unwounded;--stout lad, too, before that strafe.         Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"         Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:         "That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!"