SCUTARI

					At Inkerman
					He had the soldiers' hope
					Of keeping kit and body fit	
					For duty fearing the surgeon's saw
					Worse than the Cossack Horse
					The sweating sickness
					More than the Russian Horde
					Now he lies uneasy
					Alone amongst Scutari's
					Moaning, snoring, delirium
					Is it in his wandering still
					The English lady's face passes
					Pale above the flickering flame
					Faint rays lightly touching
					Each fevered cot
					Leaving peace

					Norman Hadland