Then he strikes. Hark, now “Up guards, and at ’em,
Bang! Victory! On Stanley, on!
Send a volley in there—on the point of the square,
So—another like that, and we’ve won.”
See your foemen and comrades all lying
On the blood-stained heath, gory and red,
Hear the groans and the prayers of the dying
And the agonised shrieks of the dead.
Poor Jack! What, a drink from my flask, son,
And leave you to die? Save myself?