“Sir,” said he to his captain, “let all retire, I pray;
You’ll take this message to our duke—from Corporal Micca, say,
Our noble Duke of Savoy, I only ask, will be
A father to the fatherless when weeping sore for me!”

Thus thinking of his village-home, he scarce could speak for tears;
His eyes flashed grandly through them, when he heard the Grenadiers,
As, like some Alpine avalanche, to the breach o’erhead they roll;
Quoth he, “Retire, my comrades—and pray God rest my soul!”

His comrades have departed—their measured footfalls fell
On Micca’s ears within that mine like to his parting knell;
The mine is fired—the mine has sprung with one dread thunder-roar!
He and twelve hundred foemen will fight again no more!

In Andorno Cacciorna green is yet the hero’s fame;
His cottage still is standing—a descendant of his name
Unto me, a weary wand’rer, with flushing cheek she told,
How Corporal Micca fired the mine in the troublous times of old!