Or thunder rain-drops trickling on their head;
Or worse, the shriek of bag-pipes, zephyr borne,
No more shall wake them from their palliasse bed.
And they no more upon those beds shall turn,
Making perchance, in dreams, tall scoring there.
No comrades greet them in hot haste to learn
What they have made, their joy or sadness share.
Oft did the targets to their science yield
The welcome “eyes” when they past records broke.
How jocund then they sped across the field!