The poem
Our game was his but yesteryear; We wished him back; we could not know The self-same hour we missed him here He led the line that broke the foe.
Blood-red behind our guarded posts Sank as of old and dying day; The battle ceased; the mingled hosts Weary and cheery went their way:
"To-morrow well may bring," we said, "As fair a fight, as clear a sun." Dear Lad, before the world was sped, For evermore thy goal was won.