They come not back, 'tis he must go 



To join them in the past : 

 There, with brave names and deeds entwined, 



Which Time may not forget, 

 Young Fusiliers unborn shall find 



The legend of our pet. 



Whilst o'er fresh years, and other life 



Yet in God's mystic urn, 

 The picture of the mighty strife 



Arises sad and stern — 

 Blood all in front, behind far shrines 



With women weeping low, 

 For whom each lost one's fane but shines, 



As shines the moon on snow — 



Marked by the medal, his of right, 



And by his kind keen face, 

 Under that visionary light 



Poor Bob shall keep his place ; 

 And never may our honoured Queen 



For love and service pay, 

 Less brave, less patient, or more mean 



Than his we mourn to-day ! 



Francis Doyle 



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