Or lose your tennis wrist or golfing stance.
For you the music ceased on highest note—
Your charge had won, you'd scattered them like sand,
And then a little whisper in your throat,
And you asleep, your cheek upon your hand.
Thrice happy fate, you met it in full cry,
Young, eager, loved, your glitt'ring world all joy—
You ebbed not out, you died when tide was high,
An old campaigner envies you, my boy!