一声枪响响彻世界;勇士在可怜的失败中躺下。向黑暗的死神发起最后的挑战，向阳光灿烂的天空发起最后的挑战。他孤独地倒下了，眼睛又宽又瘪，充满了忧伤。这双眼睛即使死也能微笑，却不敢面对羞耻。他一个人，一个人在窄小的房间里踱来踱去，在巴黎那一天灿烂的阳光下;在他的思想中看到了可怕的厄运之手;梦见他的荣耀消逝;他的心，他疲倦的心，试着祷告:“哦，上帝!是你创造了我，请给我力量去面对这痛苦、耻辱的幽灵。”* * * * *火苗在茂密的峡谷里咆哮; The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door; He sees himself a barefoot boy again, Bending o'er page of legendary lore. He hears the pibroch, grips the red claymore, Runs with the Fiery Cross, a clansman true, Sworn kinsman of Rob Roy and Roderick Dhu. Eating his heart out with a wild desire, One day, behind his counter trim and neat, He hears a sound that sets his brain afire -- The Highlanders are marching down the street. Oh, how the pipes shrill out, the mad drums beat! "On to the gates of Hell, my Gordons gay!" He flings his hated yardstick away. He sees the sullen pass, high-crowned with snow, Where Afghans cower with eyes of gleaming hate. He hurls himself against the hidden foe. They try to rally -- ah, too late, too late! Again, defenseless, with fierce eyes that wait For death, he stands, like baited bull at bay, And flouts the Boers, that mad Majuba day. He sees again the murderous Soudan, Blood-slaked and rapine-swept. He seems to stand Upon the gory plain of Omdurman. Then Magersfontein, and supreme command Over his Highlanders. To shake his hand A King is proud, and princes call him friend. And glory crowns his life -- and now the end, The awful end. His eyes are dark with doom; He hears the shrapnel shrieking overhead; He sees the ravaged ranks, the flame-stabbed gloom. 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. His arm was strong. Ah! well they learnt, the foe The echo of his deeds is ringing yet -- Will ring for aye. All else . . . let us forget.