| |
| THE FOURTEENTH of July had come, | |
| And round the guillotine | |
| The thieves and beggars, rank by rank, | |
| Moved the red flags between. | |
| A crimson heart, upon a pole,— | 5 |
| The long march had begun; | |
| But still the little smiling child | |
| Sat knitting in the sun. | |
| |
| The red caps of those men of France | |
| Shook like a poppy field; | 10 |
| Three women’s heads with gory hair, | |
| The standard-bearers wield. | |
| Cursing, with song and battle-hymn, | |
| Five butchers dragged a gun; | |
| Yet still the little maid sat there, | 15 |
| A-knitting in the sun. | |
| |
| An axe was painted on the flags, | |
| A broken throne and crown, | |
| A ragged coat upon a lance, | |
| Hung in foul black threads down. | 20 |
| “More heads!” the seething rabble cry, | |
| And now the drums begun; | |
| But still the little fair-haired child | |
| Sat knitting in the sun. | |
| |
| And every time a head rolled off, | 25 |
| They roll like winter seas, | |
| And, with a tossing up of caps, | |
| Shouts shook the Tuileries. | |
| Whizz—went the heavy chopper down, | |
| And then the drums begun; | 30 |
| But still the little smiling child | |
| Sat knitting in the sun. | |
| |
| The Jacobins, ten thousand strong, | |
| And every man a sword; | |
| The red caps, with the tri-colors, | 35 |
| Led on the noisy horde. | |
| “The Sans-Culottes to-day are strong.” | |
| The gossips say, and run; | |
| But still the little maid sits there, | |
| A-knitting in the sun. | 40 |
| |
| Then the slow death-cart moved along; | |
| And, singing patriot songs, | |
| A pale, doomed poet bowing comes | |
| And cheers the swaying throng. | |
| Oh, when the axe swept shining down, | 45 |
| The mad drums all begun; | |
| But, smiling still, the little child | |
| Sat knitting in the sun. | |
| |
| “Le Marquis!”—linen snowy white, | |
| The powder in his hair, | 50 |
| Waving his scented handkerchief, | |
| Looks down with careless stare. | |
| A whirr, a chop—another head— | |
| Hurrah! the works begun; | |
| But still the little child sat there, | 55 |
| A-knitting in the sun. | |
| |
| A stir, and through the parting crowd, | |
| The people’s friends are come; | |
| Marat and Robespierre—“Vivat! | |
| Roll thunder from the drum.” | 60 |
| The one a wild beast’s hungry eye, | |
| Hair tangled—hark! a gun! | |
| The other kindly kissed the child | |
| A-knitting in the sun. | |
| |
| “And why not work all night?” the child | 65 |
| Said to the knitters there; | |
| Oh, how the furies shook their sides, | |
| And tossed their grizzled hair! | |
| Then clapped a bonnet rouge on her, | |
| And cried—“’Tis well begun!” | 70 |
| And laughed to see the little child | |
| Knit, smiling, in the sun. | |
| |
