The Soldier and the Samovar

They shot him as he left the house And stripped him in the snow But still he held the samovar And would not let it go.

Who knows from what fine home he came With afternoons at tea? If I had been that lonely lad, They would have shot at me.

For I’d have run as desperately Behind some log to settle, And sit me down beside my theft, The big, old Russian kettle.

But dead he lies; the snow piles high And winter fills the land, And only spring will move the thing And take it from his hand.