If you could see, fair brother, how dead beat The fellows look who come through Rome to-day, -- Black yellow smoke-dried visages, -- you'd say They thought their haste at going all too fleet. Their empty victual-wagons up the street Over the bridge dreadfully sound and sway; Their eyes, as hanged men's, turning the wrong way; And nothing on their backs, or heads, or feet. One sees the ribs and all the skeletons Of their gaunt horses; and a sorry sight Are the torn saddles, crammed with straw and stones. They are ashamed, and march throughout the night; Stumbling, for hunger, on their marrowbones; Like barrels rolling, jolting, in this plight. Their arms all gone, not even their swords are saved; And each as silent as a man being shaved. |