Wainscott Bristol, a raging terrier Killing the Yankee that shot Phil Ferrier With a cut that spattered the bloody brains Over his saddle and bridle-reins, One Cotter cursing, the other praying, And both of them slashing like scythes of slaying, Stuart Cazenove singing “Lord Randall” And Howard Brooke as white as a candle, While Father fought like a fiend in satin, And killed as he quoted tag-ends of Latin, The prisoners with their sick, dazed wonder And the mouths of children caught in a blunder And over it all, the guns, the thunder, The pace, the being willing to die, The stinging color of victory.

He remembered it all like a harsh, tense dream. It had a color. It had a gleam. But he had outridden and lost the rest And he was alone with the bloody West And a trampled road, and a black hill-crest.