The bugler sent a call of high romance--
"Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer:
"God, if it's _this_ for me next time in France,
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with other broken ones,
Lying so stiff and still under the sky--
Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die ..."
The music ceased, and the red sunset flare
Was blood about his head as he stood there.