Page:The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses.djvu/106



Oh, to have fallen!—the battle-field his bed, With Wauchope and his glorious brother-dead. Why was he saved for this, for this? And now He raises the revolver to his brow.

In many a Highland home, framed with rude art, You'll find his portrait, rough-hewn, stern and square; It's graven in the Fuyam fellah's heart; The Ghurka reads it at his evening prayer; The raw lands know it, where the fierce suns glare; The Dervish fears it. Honor to his name Who holds aloft the shield of England's fame.

Mourn for our hero, men of Northern race! We do not know his sin; we only know His sword was keen. He laughed death in the face, And struck, for Empire's sake, a giant blow.