We wanted doctors: he was a doctor;
Had we wanted a prince it had been the same.
Admiral, general, cobbler, proctor--
A man may be anything. What's in a name?
The wounded were dying, the dead lay thick
In the hospital beds beside the quick.
Any man with a steady nerve
And a ready hand, who knew how to obey,
In those stern times might well deserve
His fifty piastres daily pay.
So Mr. King, as assistant surgeon,
Bandaged, and dosed, and nursed, and dressed,
And worked, as he ate and drank, with zest,
Until he began to blossom and burgeon
To redness of features and fulness of cheek,
And his starven hands grew plump and sleek.
But for all sign of wealth he wore
He swaggered neither less nor more.
He talked the stuff he talked before,
And bragged as he had bragged of yore,
With his Yankee chaff and his Yankee slang,
And his Yankee bounce and his Yankee twang.
And, to tell the truth, we all held clear
Of the impudent little adventurer;
And any man with an eye might see
That, though he bore it merrily,
He recognised the tacit scorn
Which dwelt about him night and morn.
The Turks fought well, as most men fight
For life and faith, and hearth and home.
But, from Teliche and Etrepol, left and right,
The Muscov swirled, like the swirling foam
On the rack of a tempest driven sea.
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