The Youngest Burgher
The camp of women is ruled by silence and darkness
The misery kindly concealed by the night
Here and there a minute light is flickering
Where the Angel of Death is lingering.
In this place of woe and of broken hearts
A young boy’s muffled whimpers quiver through the night
Who can count all the tears, who can measure the grief
of an orphan alone in the world
Freedom demands from our ranks
Men of courage who taunt mortal danger.
But also in the camp, the mother, the nurturer
And the innocent child on her breast.
And the reward? Perhaps on the plains
A lonesome grave doused by no tears.
Sometime, perhaps, posterity might honor our heroes…
Boy, do you feel up to it? General, I do!