"What, are you lost, my pretty little lady?
This is no place for such sweet things as you.
Our bodies, rank with sweat, will make you sicken,
And, you'll observe, our lives are rank lives too."
"Oh no, I am not lost! Oh no, I've come here
(And I have brought my lute, see, in my hand),
To see you, and to sing of all you suffer
To the great world, and make it understand!"
"Well, say! If one of those who'd robbed you thousands,
Dropped you a sixpence in the gutter where
You lay and rotted, would you call her angel,
For all her charming smile and dainty air?"
"Oh no, I come not thus! Oh no, I've come here
With heart indignant, pity like a flame,
To try and help you!"—"Pretty little lady,
It will be best you go back whence you came."
"'Enthusiasms' we have such little time for!
In our rude camp we drill the whole day long.
When we return from out the serried battle,
Come, and we'll listen to your pretty song!"