And so when he reached my bed
The General made a stand:
'My brave young fellow,' he said,
'I would shake your hand.'
So I lifted my arm, the right,
With never a hand at all;
Only a stump, a sight
Fit to appal.
'Well, well. Now that's too bad!
That's sorrowful luck,' he said;
'But there! You give me, my lad,
The left instead.'
So from under the blanket's rim
I raised and showed him the other,
A snag as ugly and grim
As its ugly brother.
He looked at each jagged wrist;
He looked, but he did not speak;
And then he bent down and kissed
Me on either cheek.
You wonder now I don't mind
I hadn't a hand to offer. . . .
They tell me (you know I'm blind)
'Twas Grand-Pere Joffre.