(_Being what the Yeoman said to the Psalmist._)
Tell me not in ceaseless rumours
That we soon are going home,
Just to cure our bitter humours,
While upon the veldt we roam.
War is real, and war is earnest,
And Pretoria warn't the goal,
Out thou cam'st, but when returnest
Is not known to any soul.
Forward, fighting, smoking, chewing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
And arriving--_just too late_.