LUKA FILIPOV
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more hero to be part
Of the Servians' glory! Lute to lute and heart to heart Tell the homely story; Let the Moslem hide for shame, Trembling like the falcon's game, Thinking on the falcon's name— Luka Filipov.
When he fought with sword and gun
Doughty was he reckoned; When he was the foremost, none Blushed to be the second. But he tired of the taint Of the Turk's blood, learned restraint From his sated sword—the quaint Luka Filipov.
Thus he reasoned: Though they fall
Like the grass in mowing, Yet the dead Turks, after all, Make a sorry showing. Foes that die remember not How our bought Our unbroken freedom—thought Luka Filipov.
So, in last year's battle-storm
Swooped our Servian falcon, Chose the sleekest of the swarm From beyond the Balkan: Plucked a pacha from his horse, Carried him away by force, While we cheered along his course: “Luka!” “Filipov!”
To the Prince his prize he bore
Just as he had won him—
Laid him at the Prince's door, Not a scratch upon him. “Prince, a present! And for fear He should find it lonely here, I will fetch his mate,” said queer Luka Filipov.
Back into the fight he rushed
Where the Turks were flying, Past his kinsmen boldly brushed, Leaping dead and dying: Seized a stalwart infidel, Wrenched his gun and, like a spell, Marched him back—him heeding well Luka Filipov.
But the Moslems, catching breath
Mid their helter-skelter, Poured upon him hail of death From a rocky shelter, Till a devil-guided ball Striking one yet wounded all: For there staggered, nigh to fall, Luka Filipov!
Paused the conflict—all intent
On the two before us; And the Turkish regiment Cheered in hideous chorus As the prisoner, half afraid, Turned and started up the glade, Thinking—dullard!—to evade Luka Filipov.
We'd have fired but Luka's hand
Rose in protestation, While his pistol's mute command Needed no translation; For the Turk retraced his track, Knelt and took upon his back (As a peddler shifts his pack) Luka Filipov!
How we cheered him as he passed
Through the line, a-swinging
Gun and pistol—bleeding fast—
Grim—but loudly singing: “Lucky me to find a steed Fit to give the Prince for speed! Rein or saddle ne'er shall need Luka Filipov!”
So he urged him to the tent
Where the Prince was resting—
Brought his captive, shamed and spent, To make true his jesting. And as couriers came to say That our friends had won the day, Who should up and faint away? Luka Filipov.