Then slay the rest till all the ground,
Covered with blood, appears one wound;
Then come Montescos by, and see my blade
Dripping with gore. 'Tis our brave comrade!
They panting cry; he's killed the seven,
And sent their souls unshrift to heaven.
But stay, suppose I kill but six,
The seventh may my heart transfix,
And let in daylight through my back!
My master comes, and cries, "Good lack!
How many did he kill?" "All six," they say.
"But who kill'd number seven?" Alas, the day!
How can I answer? I am dead,
And there is no more to be done or said.
No, no! let each man care for number one,
And leave to others all the fighting fun.
Most men would rather talk than fight;
And they may say, when I am out of sight,
"He kill'd not one." I'll sheath my blade,
And leave to such as like, the cold-steel trade.
It is a selfish world, when all is done:
I'll stay behind; take care of number one.
Old Capelete (without).
Carlos Montesco, our prisoner, lead
Well guarded to the castle gate.
