Two hundred thousand men stand like a rock,
While two hundred thousand rush to the shock.
Two hundred thousand brains throb like fire,
Which will storm the hill? meet the lightning’s ire?
Four hundred thousand lips mutter an oath—
With wolf’s eyes they glare, carnage nothing loath.
Between two hills, the vale is filled with mist,
A smiling king stands on each hill, I wist.
With sidelong look they watch each other’s face,
And speed “Good-morning” to each other’s place.
Frowns on their brows—hate lurking in their eyes,
’Neath purple robes are hid hands white and wise.
Two kings upon two hills, their palms spread out,
Four hundred thousand men rush with a shout.
Ten thousand souls shriek out in mortal pain,
The kings applaud the music, “Call again.”
Thousands of dying men at eve lie low,
The kings gaze as at an opera show.
A hundred thousand men rush in wild flight,
One of the kings says smiling, “A fine sight.”
One king smiles and sets his throne higher,
The other bows low before the slyer.
Thousands lying, dying on the heather—
The two kings and generals drink together.