“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 disgrace.

The bolt-heads locked to the cartridge;

The rifles steadied 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 the cordite-smoke.