The restless talk was a simmering brew That made the horses restless too; They stamped and snuffled and pricked their ears⁠— There were cheers, off somewhere⁠—but which side’s cheers? Had the Yankees whipped? Were the Yankees breaking? The whole troop grumbled and wondered, aching For fighting or fleeing or fornicating Or anything else except this bored waiting.

An aide rode up on a sweating mare And they glowered at him with hostile stare. He had been in it and they had not. He had smelt the powder and heard the shot, And they hated his soul and his martial noise With the envious hate of little boys. Then “Yaaih! Yaaih!” —and Wingate felt The whole troop lift like a lifted dart And loosened the sabre at his belt, And felt his chest too small for his heart.