<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507077" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>An Old Twenty-Third Man</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine, <br>Marching below, and we still gulping wine?” <br>From the sad magic of his fragrant cup <br>The red-faced old centurion started up, <br>Cursed, battered on the table. “No,” he said,<br>“Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion’s dead, <br>Dead in the first year of this damned campaign— <br>The Legion’s dead, dead, and won’t rise again. <br>Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die, <br>But we need pity also, you and I,<br>Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss, <br>Who live to see the Legion come to this, <br>Unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot, <br>Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot. <br>O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy thigh!<br>Where are they now? God! watch it struggle by, <br>The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine. <br>Is that the Legion, Gracchus? Quick, the wine!” <br>“Strabo,” said Gracchus, “you are strange tonight. <br>The Legion is the Legion; it’s all right.<br>If these new men are slovenly, in your thinking, <br>God damn it! you’ll not better them by drinking. <br>They all try, Strabo; trust their hearts and hands. <br>The Legion is the Legion while Rome stands, <br>And these same men before the autumn’s fall<br>Shall bang old Vercingetorix out of Gaul.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Graves">Robert Graves</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507077" data-title="An Old Twenty-Third Man de Robert Graves" data-description="“Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine, Marching below, and we still gulping wine?” From the sad magic of his fragrant cup The red-faced old centurion started up, Cursed, battered on the table. “No,” he said, “Not that! The Th..."></div> </div> </div>

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