A pistol shot rings round and round the world; In pitiful defeat a warrior lies. A last defiance to dark Death is hurled, A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies.
Alone he falls, with wide, wan, woeful eyes: Eyes that could smile at death—could not face shame. Eating his heart out with a wild desire, One day, behind his counter trim and neat, He hears a sound that sets his brain afire— The Highlanders are marching down the street. Oh, how the pipes shrill out, the mad drums beat!
He sees the sullen pass, high-crowned with snow, Where Afghans cower with eyes of gleaming hate. He hurls himself against the hidden foe. They try to rally—ah, too late, too late! Again, defenseless, with fierce eyes that wait For death, he stands, like baited bull at bay, And flouts the Boers, that mad Majuba day. He sees again the murderous Soudan, Blood-slaked and rapine-swept.
He seems to stand Upon the gory plain of Omdurman. Then Magersfontein, and supreme command Over his Highlanders. To shake his hand A King is proud, and princes call him friend. And glory crowns his life—and now the end,. The awful end. His eyes are dark with doom; He hears the shrapnel shrieking overhead; He sees the ravaged ranks, the flame-stabbed gloom. Oh, to have fallen! Why was he saved for this, for this?
And now He raises the revolver to his brow. Mourn for our hero, men of Northern race! We do not know his sin; we only know His sword was keen. His arm was strong. All else… let us forget. He has panted at the windlass, he has loaded in the drift, He has pounded at the face of oozy clay; He has taxed himself to sickness, dark and damp and double shift, He has labored like a demon night and day. They signified their sympathy by crowding to the bar; They bellied up three deep and drank his health.
