The Lackey monologue — L'Aiglon

Us, the men, the mean, the rank and file? Us, tramping broken, wounded, muddy, dying, Having no hope of duchies or endowments, Marching along and never getting further, Too simple and too ignorant to covet The famous marshal's baton in our knapsacks? What about us, who marched through every weather, Sweating but fearless, shivering without trembling, Kept on our feel by trumpet-calls, by fever, And by the songs we sang through conquered countries? Us upon whom for seventeen years--just think!-- The knapsack, sabre, turn-screw, flint, and gun, Beside the burden of an empty belly, Made the sweet weight of five and fifty pounds? Us, who wore bearskins in the burning tropics And marched bareheaded through the snows of Russia, Who trotted casually from Spain to Austria? Us who, to free our travel-weary legs, Like carrots from the slough of miry roads, Often with both hands had to lug them out? Us, who, not having jujubes for our coughs, Took day-long foot-baths in the freezing Danube? Who just had leisure when some officer Came riding up, and gayly cried "To arms! The enemy is on us! Drive him back!" To eat a slice of rook--and raw at that, Or quickly mix a delicate ice-cream With melted snow and a dead horse's blood? Us, who--