“At Chelsea, under the lime tree’s stir,
I read the news to a pensioner
That a noble lord and a judge were dead—
‘They were younger men than me,’ he said.
“I read again of another death;
The old man turned, and caught his breath—
‘She’s gone?’ he said; ‘she too? In camp
We called her the Lady of the Lamp.’
“He would not listen to what I read,
But wanted it certain—‘The Lady’s dead?’