Franc-Tireurs

I see three boys of very tender years,
Shoeless and ragged, trembling, shedding tears,
Hurried along by a ferocious guard
Of foreign soldiers to their meet reward.
Are they not criminals of deepest dye ?
These have arisen for hearth and family !
'Tis wan cold morning : hark ! the musket rattle :
These murdered innocents are not slain in battle !
I do not love to hear a gentle hare
Scream when, arising from her flowery lair,
The sportsman wounds her with his cruel gun,
And the wood crimsons wheresoe'er she run :
Yet less endure to view the barrels gleam
Yonder, to hear the sickening human scream
Of those three patriot children biting dust,
While agonising forest boughs are thrust
Athwart the glare of a red rising sun,
As they would hide from him the dastard infamy done !

Under some trees not very far from there
Lies an old man with soiled silver hair :
Here all alone the patriot fired for France
Upon the foe ; two strive to wrench the lance,
Wherewith they have bored him, from the frame that quivers :
Yet see in very labour of death he shivers
With his good gun the German skull of one !
Four more fierce bullets, ere the work be done,
In blundering fury must the hordes discharge,
Ere they may set this rampant soul at large,
The formidable tortured ghost within,
Which all in darkening smiles up<jn the sin,
That shall be wrought for vengeance in Berlin !