The British don't have defeats, just glorious retreats. Charles Wolfe's poem about the end of the disastrous campaign in north Spain in the Napoleonic wars is an example:

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,        
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;        
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot        
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.        

We buried him darkly at dead of night,                 
The sods with our bayonets turning,        
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light        
And the lanthorn dimly burning.        

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,        
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;        
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest        
With his martial cloak around him.        

Few and short were the prayers we said,        
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;        
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,        
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.        

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed        
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,        
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,        
And we far away on the billow!        

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,        
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—        
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on        
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.        

But half of our heavy task was done        
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;        
And we heard the distant and random gun        
That the foe was sullenly firing.        

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,        
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;        
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,        
But we left him alone with his glory.