If Death had questioned thee,
"Soldier, where would'st thou take,
The immitigable blow?"
Thou hadst answered, "Let it be
Where the battalions shake
And break the entrenchéd foe."
Yet wert thou nobly starred
And destined. Thou dost die
On the grim English sea;
Thou goest to the old tarred
Great Captains, and shalt lie
Pillowed with them eternally.
And they shall stir from their rest
Each in his lordly shroud,
And say, "'Fore God, we have room,
So are the deeps made proud,
Behold the glory on his breast,
Kitchener of Khartoum!"
-- X.
