Wingate, waiting the sultry sound That would pour the troop over hostile ground, Petted his grey like a loving son And wondered whether the brute would run When it came to fighting, or merely shy There was a look in the rolling eye That he knew too well to criticize Having seen it sometimes in other eyes. “Poor old Fatty,” he said. “Don’t fret, It’s tough, but it hasn’t happened yet And we may get through it if you behave, Though it looks just now like a right close shave.

There’s something funny about this fight⁠—” He thought of Lucy in candlelight, White and gold as the evening star, Giving bright ribbons to men at war. But the face grew dimmer and ever dimmer, The gold was there but the gold was fainter, And a slow brush streaked it with something grimmer Than the proper tint of a lady’s painter Till the shadow she cast was a ruddy shadow. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the meadow.⁠ ⁠…