He prayed,
There where he lay,
Blood-sodden and unkempt,
As never in his young, gay carelessness he'd dreamt
That he could pray.

He prayed:
Not that the pain should cease,
Nor yet for water in the parching heat,
Nor for death's quick release,
Nor even for the tardy feet
Of stretcher-bearers bringing aid.

He prayed;
Cast helpless on the bloody sod:
“Don't trouble now, O God, for me,
But keep the boys. Go forward with them, God!
O speed the Camerons to victory.”
The kilts flashed on: “Well played,” he sighed, “well played.”
Just so he prayed.