He shakes the dust from off his feet
And shambles down the dirty street—
The last man in the town, they said,
Who’d shot a hundred Yankees dead.

At every door he looks inside
Where pansies bloom and violets hide;
Some little boys offer him a cheer,
And only the town-dog seems to leer.

What does he seek with watery eyes?
A face or two, perhaps, or lies
That tell him Genevieve is there,
Behind the trellis, just as fair.

I cannot say he walks in vain,
Nor back of his leather-lips is pain—
Only no bottle yields its cork
And skyscrapers tower in far New York.