Wingate saw it all⁠—but with altered eyes. He was not yet broken on any wheel, He had no wound of the flesh to heal, He had seen one battle, but he was still The corn unground by the watermill, He had ridden the rainy winter through And he and Black Whistle were good as new, The Black Horse Troop still carried its pride And rode as the Yankees could not ride, But, when he remembered a year-old dawn, Something had come and something gone, And even now, when he smelt the Spring, And his heart was hot with his homecoming, There was a whisper in his ear That said what he did not wish to hear, “This is the last, this is the last, Hurry, hurry, this is the last, Drink the wine before yours is spilled, Kiss the sweetheart before you’re killed, She will be loving, and she will grieve, And wear your heart on her golden sleeve And marry your friend when he gets his leave.