They had charged in the grand old fashion with furious shout and swoop,
With a “Follow me, lads!” from the Colonel, and an answering roar from the troop;
From the Staff, as the troopers pass’d it, in glory of pride and pluck.
They heard and they never forgot it, one following shout, “Good luck!”
Wounded and worn he sat there, in silence of pride and pain,
The man who’d led them often, but was never to lead again.
Think of the secret anguish! think of the dull remorse!
To see the Hussars sweep past him, unled by the old White Horse!
An alien, not a stranger; with heart of a comrade still,
He had borne his sorrow bravely, as a soldier must and will;