“I’m sorry I done it, Major.”
We bandaged the livid face;
And led him out, ere the wan sun rose,
To die his death of ignorance.

The bolt-heads locked to the cartridges;
The rifles stead to rest,
As cold stock nestled at colder cheek
And foresight lined on the breast.

“Fire” called the Sergeant-Major.
The muzzles flamed as he spoke:
And the shameless soul of a nameless man
Went up in cordite-smoke.