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Fame is but a fleeting shadow,

Glory but an empty name;

Spite of all that I have gone through,

’Tis, I find, a losing game:

Without interest, without money,

Nothing can a soldier gain;

Though he be the sole survivor

Of a host of comrades slain:

What avail these glitt’ring honours,

Which a queen laid on my breast;

Though I’ve sought them from my childhood,

Would I’d fallen with the rest:

Then my heart had not been broken

Life had fled without a sigh;

Hunger presses—I am fainting—

Ought a soldier thus to die?

The Old Shekarry.

CAMP-FIRE YARNS OF

THE LOST LEGION