Chapter V: Her Own (2)

We are sick of talk and treason,
There is duty to be done;
By the veteran in danger,
And the lad who is a stranger
Unto strife and shrinks from none;
In the power of right and reason,
Now all classes are but one.

We have suffered and have yielded,
Till we felt the burning shame;
And long outrage and endurance
Are our glory of assurance
To begin the bloody game;
By our honour are we shielded,
In the might of England's name.

It is no more fume of faction,
It is no more weary calls;
We are strong in faith and steady,
With the sword of Justice ready
And our iron men and walls;
Since the hour has struck for action,
And red retribution falls.

We have wrongs, which for redressing
Cry aloud to God at last;
It is woe to him who trifles
When we speak across our rifles
At the great and final cast;
And we seek no other blessing
Than the blotting out the past.

We will brook no new denial,
We will have no second tale;
And we seek no sordid laurels,
But here fight the ages' quarrels
And for freedom's broadening pale--
Lo, an Empire on its trial,
Hangs within the awful scale.

WANTED--A CROMWELL.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

O for an hour of Cromwell's might
Who raised an Empire out of dust,
And lifted it to noontide light
By simple and heroic trust;
Whose word was like a swordsman's thrust,
And clove its way through crowned night.
We want old England's iron stock,
Hewn of the same eternal rock.

Where is the man of equal part,
To rule by right divine of power;
With statesman's head and soldier's heart,
And all the ages' dreadful dower
Brought to a bright and perfect flower--
From whom a nobler course may start?
We hear but faction's fume and cry,
With England in her agony.

Where is the master mind that reads
The far-off issues of the day,
And with a willing nation pleads
That loves to own a master sway?
Where are the landmarks on the way,
Set up alone by him who leads?
We vainly ask a common creed
To make us one in England's need.

Is there no man with broader reach
To fill a thorny throne of care,
And bravely act and bravely teach
Because in all he has a share?
No helper who will do and dare,
And stand a bulwark in the breach?
Have we no lord of England's fate,
Though coming from a cottage gate?

O surely somewhere is the hand
To grasp and guide this reeling realm,
While in the hour-glass sinks the sand
And faints the pilot at the helm;
If billows break to overwhelm,
Yet he will conquer and command.
England is waiting to be led,
If through the dying and the dead.

We do not seek the party fame
That trafficks in a people's fall,
But one to shield our burning shame
And answer just his country's call;
To weld us in a solid wall,
And kindle with a common flame.
Ah, when she finds the fitting man,
England will do what England can.

ENGLAND'S IRONSIDES.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

They are not gone, the old Cromwellian breed,
As witness conquered tides,
And many a pasture sown with crimson seed--
Our English Ironsides;
And out on kopjes, where the bullets rain,
They serve their Captain, slaying or are slain.
The same grand spirit in the same grim stress
Arms them with stubborn mail;
They see the light of duty's loveliness
And over death prevail.
They never count the price or weigh the odds,
The work is theirs, the victory is God's.

They are not fled, the old Cromwellian stock,
Where stern the horseman rides,
Or stands the outpost like a lonely rock--
Our English Ironsides.
Through drift and donga, up the fire-girt crag
They bear the honour of the ancient flag.
What if they starve, or on red pillows lie
Beneath a burning sun?
It is enough to live their day, or die
Ere it has even begun;
They only ask what duty's voice would crave,
And march right on to glory or the grave.

THE THREE CHERRY-STONES.

ANONYMOUS.

Many years ago, three young gentlemen were lingering over their fruit and wine at a tavern, when a man of middle age entered the room, seated himself at a small unoccupied table, and calling the waiter, ordered a simple meal. His appearance was not such as to arrest attention. His hair was thin and grey; the expression of his countenance was sedate, with a slight touch, perhaps, of melancholy; and he wore a grey surtout with a standing collar, which manifestly had seen service, if the wearer had not.

The stranger continued his meal in silence, without lifting his eyes from the table, until a cherry-stone, sportively snapped from the thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen, struck him upon his right ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor, and his ready intelligence gathered from the ill-suppressed merriment of the party that this petty impertinence was intentional.

The stranger stooped, and picked up the cherry-stone, and a scarcely perceptible smile passed over his features as he carefully wrapped it in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket. This singular procedure upset the gravity of the young gentlemen entirely, and a burst of laughter proceeded from the group.

Unmoved by this rudeness, the stranger continued his frugal repast until another cherry-stone, from the same hand, struck him upon the right elbow. This also, to the infinite amusement of the party, he picked from the floor, and carefully deposited with the first.

Amidst shouts of laughter, a third cherry-stone was soon after discharged, and struck the stranger upon the left breast. This also he very deliberately deposited with the other two.

As he rose, and was engaged in paying for his repast, the gaiety of these sporting gentlemen became slightly subdued. Having discharged his reckoning, he walked to the table at which the young men were sitting, and with that air of dignified calmness which is a thousand times more terrible than wrath, drew a card from his pocket, and presented it with perfect civility to the offender, who could do no other than offer his in return. While the stranger unclosed his surtout, to take the card from his pocket, he displayed the undress coat of a military man. The card disclosed his rank, and a brief inquiry at the bar was sufficient for the rest. He was a captain whom ill-health and long service had entitled to half-pay. In earlier life he had been engaged in several affairs of honour, and, in the dialect of the fancy, was a dead shot.

The next morning a note arrived at the aggressor's residence, containing a challenge, in form, and one of the cherry-stones. The truth then flashed before the challenged party--it was the challenger's intention to make three bites at this cherry--three separate affairs out of this unwarrantable frolic! The challenge was accepted, and the challenged party, in deference to the challenger's reputed skill with the pistol, had half decided upon the small sword; but his friends, who were on the alert, soon discovered that the captain, who had risen by his merit, had, in the earlier days of his necessity, gained his bread as an accomplished instructor in the use of that weapon.

They met, and fired alternately, by lot--the young man had selected this mode, thinking he might win the first fire--he did--fired, and missed his opponent. The captain levelled his pistol and fired--the ball passed through the flap of the right ear; and, as the wounded man involuntarily put his hand to the place, he remembered that it was the right ear of his antagonist that the first cherry-stone had struck. Here ended the first lesson. A month passed. His friends cherished the hope that he would hear nothing more from the captain, when another note--a challenge, of course--and another cherry-stone arrived, with an apology, on the score of ill-health, for delay.

Again they met--fired simultaneously, and the captain, who was unhurt, shattered the right elbow of his antagonist--the very point upon which he had been struck with the second cherry-stone; and here ended the second lesson. There was something awfully impressive in the _modus operandi_ and exquisite skill of his antagonist. The third cherry-stone was still in his possession, and the aggressor had not forgotten that it had struck the unoffending gentleman upon the left breast. A month passed--another--and another, of terrible suspense; but nothing was heard from the captain.

At length, the gentleman who had been his second in the former duels once more presented himself, and tendered another note, which, as the recipient perceived on taking it, contained the last of the cherry-stones. The note was superscribed in the captain's well-known hand, but it was the writing evidently of one who wrote feebly. There was an unusual solemnity also in the manner of him who delivered it. The seal was broken, and there was the cherry-stone in a blank envelope.

"And what, sir, am I to understand by this?" inquired the aggressor.

"You will understand, sir, that my friend forgives you--he is dead."

THE MIDSHIPMAN'S FUNERAL.

BY BARLEY DALE.

"Years ago, when I was quite a young man, I was appointed chaplain to H.M.S. _Octopus_, then on guard at Gibraltar. We had a very nice time of it, for 'Gib.' is a very gay place, and that winter there was plenty of fun somewhere nearly every night, and we were asked to most of the festivities. Now, on board the Octopus was a young midshipman, whom I will call Munro. He was a handsome young fellow, but rather delicate, and he had been sent to Gibraltar for the sake of the climate, in hopes that the sea-air and warm winter might set him up. He was the life of the ship, and wherever he went he was popular; and it is possible he might have outgrown his weakness, for I don't think there was any organic disease at this time, but he got a low fever, and died in a week. This low fever was very prevalent, and at the same time that poor young Munro died, an admiral, one of the leading members of society at 'Gib.,' died of the same disease. As it was considered infectious, the two bodies were placed in their coffins and carried to the mortuary till the funeral. Oddly enough, both funerals were fixed for the same day; Munro's in the morning, and the admiral's in the afternoon. The admiral's was to be a very grand affair, all the troops in the garrison were to follow, as well as the naval officers and sailors on board the guardships; the ceremony was to be performed by the bishop, assisted by some other clergy while as for poor Munro, I was to bury him at ten o'clock in the morning, six men were told off to carry the coffin, and it was left to those who liked to act as mourners.

"Well, the day of the funerals arrived, all the ships were decked with flags half-mast high in honour of the admiral, minute-guns were fired in honour of the admiral, church bells tolled in honour of the admiral, while as for poor Munro (one or two of us excepted), no one thought of him. Ten o'clock came, and I with the doctor and ore of Munro's comrades, another middy, and the six sailors, who, by the way, had all volunteered their services, set out for the mortuary; I had a fancy to follow the poor fellow as far as I could, so I waited while the jack tars went inside and fetched out the coffin covered with the union-jack, and Munro's hat and sword on the top, and then the little procession took its way across the neutral ground to the English cemetery. I followed the coffin, and the other two brought up the rear. The sentries did not salute us as we passed them. At last we reached the cemetery gates. Here I was obliged to relegate my post of chief mourner to the doctor, while I went into the chapel, put on my surplice, and went to the door to meet the body. I then proceeded to bury the poor boy, and when the union-jack was taken off and the coffin lowered into the grave, I leant over to take one last look; the doctor did the same, and as our eyes met the same emotion caused us both to blow our noses violently, and it was in a voice of suppressed emotion that I concluded the service.

"I was so disgusted with the way in which the poor boy had been slighted that I had not intended going to the admiral's funeral; but after burying Munro I felt more charitably disposed, so I got into my uniform and duly attended the admiral's obsequies.

"It was a very grand affair indeed; the streets were thronged with spectators, every window was filled with eager faces as the enormous procession passed by. There were five regiments stationed in Gibraltar at the time, and two men-of-war besides the _Octopus_ lying in the harbour; detachments from every regiment were sent, three military bands followed, a battery of artillery, the marines and all the jack tars in the place, the governor and his staff were there, and every officer, who was not on the sick list, quartered in Gibraltar, was present. A firing party was told off to fire over the grave when all was over, and this brilliant procession was met at the cemetery-gates by the bishop, attended by several clergymen and a surpliced choir. I forgot to say that a string of carriages followed the troops, and the entire procession could not have been much less than a mile long.

"As we crossed the neutral ground this time, the sentry, with arms reversed, saluted us; and the strains of Beethoven's 'Funeral March of a Hero,' must have been heard all over Gibraltar as the three bands--one in front, one in the rear, and one in the centre--all pealed it forth.

"Of course, not one-third of the funeral _cortège_ could get near the grave; but I managed to get pretty close. The service proceeded, and at length the coffin was uncovered to be lowered into the grave; it was smothered with flowers, but the wreaths were all carefully removed, and the admiral's cocked-hat and sword, and then the union-jack was off, and the bishop, the governor, and all the officers near the grave pressed forward to look at the coffin.

"They looked once, they started; they looked again, they frowned; they rubbed their eyes; they looked again, then they whispered; they sniffed, they snorted, they grumbled; they gave hurried orders to the sextons, who shovelled some earth on to the coffin, and the bishop hurriedly finished the service.

"What do you think they saw when they looked into the grave?

"Why, poor Munro's coffin! I buried the admiral myself in the morning, by mistake. The doctor and I found it out at the grave, but we kept our own counsel."--_Young England_.

LADYSMITH.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

I.--LADYSMITH OCCUPIED.

Flushed with fight and red with glory,
Conquerors if backward flung,
Fresh from triumphs grim and gory,
Toward the goal the Army swung;
Splendid, but with recent laurels
Dimmed by shadow of defeat,
Thirsting yet for nobler quarrels--
Never dreaming of retreat.

Day by day they grimly struggled,
Early on and on till late;
Night by night with doom they juggled,
Dodging Death and fighting Fate.
Not a murmur once was spoken,
Stern endurance still unspent,
As with spirit all unbroken
On the bitter march they went.

Still with weary steps that stumbled
Forward moved that constant tread,
Sleepless, silent, and unhumbled,
On and on the army sped,
Noble sons of noble mothers,
Proud of home and kin and kith,
Brothers to the aid of brothers,
On and on to Ladysmith.

There, through smoke of onset rifted,
Soldiers who disdained to yield
Had for weal or woe uplifted
England's own broad battle-shield.
Right across the path of pillage
Was that iron rampart thrust,
While beneath it town and village
Safely hid in settled trust.

Frail and open seemed that shelter
And unguarded to the foes,
Helpless, as the fiery welter
Rocked it in volcanic throes;
But there was defence to bind it
With the force of Destiny,
And an Empire stood behind it
Armed in awful majesty.

And no fortress ever moulded
Girt securer chosen space,
Than those unseen walls which folded
In their fear that lonely place.
On its Outposts far the scourges
Fell with wrath and crimson rain,
But the fierce assaulting surges
Beat and beat in thunder vain.

II.--LADYSMITH BESIEGED.

There they kept the old flag flying
Day by day and prayed relief,
Weary, wounded, doomed, and dying--
Gallant men and noble chief
By the leaden tempest stricken,
Grandly stood or grandly fell--
Peril had but power to quicken
Faith that owned such holy spell.

Not alone the foe without them
Menaced them with fire and shot,
Sickness creeping round about them,
Fever, dysentery, and rot,
Struck the rider and the stallion,
Making merry as at feast
On the pick of each battalion--
Ruthless, smiting man and beast.

None were spared and nothing holy,
For the fever claimed the best,
Now the high and now the lowly,
Now the baby at the breast,
All obeyed its mandate, drooping
In the fulness of their power,
Old and young before it stooping,
Bud and blossom, fruit and flower.

Hunger blanched their dauntless faces,
Furrowed with the lines of lack,
But with stern and stubborn paces
Still they drove the spoiler back.
Round them drew the iron tether
Tighter, but they kept their troth,
All for England's sake together--
Soldier and civilian both.

Death and ruin knock and enter,
Hearts may break and homesteads burn,
Yet from that lone faithful centre
Flashed red vengeance in return;
Guardian guns thence hurled defiance
From the brave who lightly took
All their blows in brave reliance,
Which no tempest ever shook.

Hand to hand they strove and wrestled
Stoutly for that pearl of pride,
Where mid flame and woe it nestled
Down with danger at its side.
Yet like boys released from class time,
Though the blast destroying blew,
There they played and found a pastime
While the Flag unconquered flew.

III.--LADYSMITH RELIEVED.

Then, when all seemed lost but glory
With the lustre which it gave,
And Relief an idle story
Murmured by a sealed grave;
While with pallid lips they reckoned
Darkly the enduring days
Famished, lo! Deliverance beckoned
Surely after long delays.

Wave on wave of martial beauty,
Dashed upon those deadly rocks
At the simple call of duty,
And were broken by the shocks.
Yet that chivalry of splendour,
Though baptized in blood and fire,
Had no thought of mean surrender
Never breathed the word retire.

Still they weighed the dreadful chances,
Still they gathered up their strength,
By invincible advances
Steeled to win the prize at length.
Fate-like their resolve to sever
Those gaunt bonds of grim despair,
And within the breach for ever
England's honour to repair.

Came relief at last, endeavour,
Stern, magnificent, and true,
Hoping on and fighting ever,
Forced its gory passage through.
All the rage of pent-up forces,
All the passion seeking vent
Out of vast and solemn sources,
Here renewed their sacrament;

In the rapture of a greeting
For which thousands fought and bled,
With the saved and saviours meeting
Over our Imperial dead.
Witnesses unseen but tested
Lived again as grander men,
And their awful shadow rested
With a benediction then;

One who with his wondrous talent
Conquered more than even the sword,
And among the gay and gallant
By his pen was crownéd lord.
There they lie in silence lowly
Which no battle now can wake,
And the ground is ever holy
For our English heroes' sake.

THE SIX-INCH GUN.

(From the Christmas number of the _Bombshell_, published in Ladysmith during the siege.)

There is a famous hill looks down,
Five miles away, on Ladysmith town,
With a long flat ridge that meets the sky
Almost a thousand feet on high.
And on the ridge there is mounted one
Long-range, terrible six-inch gun.

And down in the street a bugle is blown,
When the cloud of smoke on the sky is thrown,
For it's sixty seconds before the roar
Reverberates o'er, and a second more
Till the shell comes down with a whiz and stun
From that long-range, terrible six-inch gun.

And men and women walk up and down
The long, hot streets of Ladysmith town,
And the housewives walk in the usual round,
And the children play till the warning sound--
Then into their holes they scurry and run
From the whistling shell of the six-inch gun.

For the shells they weigh a hundred pound,
Bursting wherever they strike the ground,
While the strong concussion shakes the air
And shatters the window-panes everywhere.
And we may laugh, but there's little of fun
In the bursting shell from a six-inch gun.

Oh! 'twas whistle and jest with the carbineers gay
As they cleaned their steeds at break of day,
But like a thunderclap there fell
In the midst of the horses and men a shell,
And the sight we saw was a fearful one
After that shell from the six-inch gun.

Though the foe may beset us on every side,
We'll furnish some cheer in this Christmastide;
We will laugh and be gay, but a tear will be shed
And a thought be given to the gallant dead,
Cut off in the midst of their life and fun
By the long-range, terrible six-inch gun.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

Here's to the Isle of the Shamrock,
Here's a good English hurrah,
Luck to the Kelt upon kopje or veldt,
Erin Mavourneen gobragh.
The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,
One where the bayonets bristle,
One when there's duty to seek.
Each has a need of each other,
Linked on the shore and the wave,
All for the sake of one Mother--
Honour the Brave.

Here's to the boys of the Shamrock,
Here's to the gallant and gay,
Bearing the flag upon donga or crag,
Blithely as children at play.
The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,
One though the bullets may whistle,
One in a red grave's repose.
Each has a need of his fellows,
Sharing the glory or grave,
Each the same destiny mellows--
Honour the Brave.

Here's to the girls of the shamrock,
Here's to the glamour and grace,
Laughing on all, in hovel and hall,
Ever from Erin's young face!
The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,
One in the face of a missile,
One when the batteries speak.
Each of himself is delighted
To succour the serf or the slave,
And who can deny them united?--
Honour the Brave.

Here's to the wit of the Shamrock,
Here's to the favoured and free,
Giving us store of that magical lore
Learnt but at Nature's own knee!
The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,
One when fame writes her epistle,
One where dread dangers enclose.
Each for the others asks only,
Ever to succour and save,
Each without all must be lonely--
Honour the Brave.

Here's to the day of the Shamrock,
Here's to the emblem of youth;
Wear it we will on our bosoms and still
Deeper in heart and in truth!
The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,
One where grim batteries bristle,
One when there's pleasure to seek.
Each on each other relying,
Trusts, nor for better would rave,
Each for all, living and dying--
Honour the Brave.

Here's to the reign of the shamrock,
Here's to the welfare of all,
Bearing its light through the feast and the fight,
Ever at liberty's call.
The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,
One where the death-arrows whistle,
One where hilarity flows.
Each from the bog or the heather
Gives all a brother may crave,
Ploughland and city together--
Honour the Brave.

THE HERO OF OMDURMAN.

MAJOR-GENERAL H.A. MACDONALD, C.B., D.S.O. [_Told in the Ranks_.]

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

There were lots of lies and tattle
In dispatches and on wire,
But 'twas Mac who saved the battle
When the word came to retire.
"I'll no do it"--he cried, ready
For what peril lay in store,
With his ranks like steel and steady--
"And I'll see them hanged before!
O, we maun jist fight!" And bolder
Slewed his front the Dervish way,
Smart with shoulder knit to shoulder,
White and black that bloody day.

Then a hell of fire, and sputtered
Iron blast and leaden hail,
While the Maxims stormed and stuttered
And our rifles did not fail.
For the destiny of nations
With an agony intense,
And our Empire's own foundations
Hung a minute in suspense.
But old Mac was cool as ever,
And his words like leaping flame
Flashed in confident endeavour
To avert that evil shame.

Swung his lines on hinges, rolling
Right and left like very doom,
Till our fate nigh past controlling
Brake in glory out of gloom.
While upon those awful stages
Throbbed a world's great piston beat,
And the moments seemed as ages
Rung from death and red defeat.
Ah, we lived, indeed, and no man
Recked of wound or any ill,
As we grimly faced the foeman--
If we died, to conquer still.

And it felt as though the burden
Of all England gave us might,
Laid on each, who asked no guerdon
But against those odds to fight.
Let the lucky get high stations
And the honour which he won,
Mac desires no decorations
But the gallant service done.
For the rankers bear the losses
And the brunt of every toil,
While they earn for others "crosses"
And the splendour and the spoil.

BOOT AND SADDLE.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

A TRUE INCIDENT IN THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN (1893).

Mashangombi's was the rat-hole,
Which we had to draw ere day,
Heedless whether this or that hole--
If we only found a way;
Up among the iron furrows
Of the rocks, where hid in burrows
Safe the rats in shelter lay.
No misgiving, not a fear--
Nor was I the last astraddle
Nor the hindmost in the rear
When the bugle sounded clear--
"Boot and saddle!"

Right away went men and horses,
Both as eager for the fun;
Through the drifts and dried-up courses,
Where like mad the waters run
After storms or through the winters,
Mashing all they meet to splinters--
Ready, hand and sword and gun.
Every eye was keen to mark,
And the tongue alone seemed idle
Every ear alert to hark
As we scanned each crevice dark--
Bit and bridle!

Here and there the startled chirrup
Of strange creatures, as we go,
Standing sometimes in the stirrup,
Just to get a bigger show;
Till we gain our point, the entry--
There the pass, no sign of sentry,
Not a sound above, below!
Clear the coast, the savage gave
Never hint to south or norward;
Was he napping in his cave,
With that quiet like the grave?--
Steady, forward!

Further in; the rats were sleeping;
We would grimly smoke them out,
With a dose of lead for keeping
And a fence of flame about;
They might wake perhaps from shelter,
At our bullets' ghastly pelter,
To the brief and bloody rout!--
But, next moment, we were wrapt
Down to saddle girth and leather
In the fire of foes unmapt;
_We_ were turned, and fairly trapt--
"Keep together!"

On they poured in thousands, hurling
Steel that stabbed and belching ball
From a host of rifles, curling
Serpent-wise around us all.
Front and flank and rear, they tumbled
Nearer, darker, as we fumbled--
Till we heard the Captain's call,
"Each man for himself, and back!"
So we rushed those rocky mazes,
With that torrent grim and black
Dealing ruin in our track--
Death and blazes!

Ah, that bullet! How it shattered
Vein and tissue to the bone;
Dropt me faint and blood-bespattered,
Helpless on a bed of stone!
While the mare which oft had eaten
From my hand, caressed, unbeaten,
Left her master doomed, alone.
Limply then I lay in dread,
Racked with torture, sick and under--
Hearing, as through vapours red
And with reeling heart and head,
Hoofs of thunder!

Was I dreaming? By the boulder
Where I huddled as I fell,
Stood the steed beside my shoulder
Faithful, fain to serve me well.
Whinnying softly, then, to screen me
From the foe, she knelt between me
And that circling human hell.
Tenderly she touched my face
With the nose that knew my petting,
Ripe for the last glorious race
And her comrade's own embrace--
Unforgetting!

O her haunches heaved and quivered
With the passion freely brought
For the life to be delivered,
Though she first with demons fought;
While her large eyes gleamed and glistened
And her ears down-pointing listened,
Waiting for the answer sought.
Till a sudden wave of might
Set me once again astraddle
On the seat of saving flight,
Plucked from very jaws of night--
Boot and saddle!

THE MIDNIGHT CHARGE.

BY CLEMENT SCOTT.

Pass the word to the boys to-night!--lying about midst dying and
dead!--
Whisper it low; make ready to fight! stand like men at your horses'
head!
Look to your stirrups and swords, my lads, and into your saddles
your pistols thrust;
Then setting your teeth as your fathers did, you'll make the enemy
bite the dust!
What did they call us, boys, at home?--"Feather-bed soldiers!"--
faith, it's true!
"Kept to be seen in her Majesty's parks, and mightily smart at a
grand review!"
Feather-bed soldiers? Hang their chaff! Where in the world, I should
like to know,
When a war broke out and the country called, was an English soldier
sorry to go?
Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! cavalry! infantry! there and
then;
No matter what careless lives they lived, they were ready to die like
Englishmen!
So pass the word! in the sultry night,
Stand to your saddles! make ready to fight!

We are sick to death of the scorching sun, and the desert stretching
for miles away;
We are all of us longing to get at the foe, and sweep the sand with
our swords to-day!
Our horses look with piteous eyes--they have little to eat, and
nothing to do;
And the land around is horribly white, and the sky above is terribly
blue.
But it's over now, so the Colonel says: he is ready to start, we are
ready to go:
And the cavalry boys will be led by men--Ewart! and Russell! and
Drury-Lowe!
Just once again let me stroke the mane--let me kiss the neck and feel
the breath
Of the good little horse who will carry me on to the end of the
battle--to life or death!
"Give us a grip of your fist, old man!" let us all keep close when
the charge begins!
God is watching o'er those at home! God have mercy on all our sins!
So pass the word in the dark, and then,
When the bugle sounds, let us mount like men!

Out we went in the dead of the night! away to the desert, across the
sand--
Guided alone by the stars of Heaven! a speechless host! a ghostly
band!
No cheery voice the silence broke; forbidden to speak, we could hear
no sound
But the whispered words, "Be firm, my boys!" and the horses' hoofs on
the sandy ground.
"What were we thinking of then?" Look here! if this is the last true
word I speak,
I felt a lump in my throat--just here--and a tear came trickling down
my cheek.
If a man dares say that I funked, he lies! But a man is a man though
he gives his life
For his country's, cause, as a soldier should--he has still got a
heart for his child and wife!
But I still rode on in a kind of dream; I was thinking of home and
the boys--and then
The silence broke! and, a bugle blew! then a voice rang cheerily,
"Charge, my men!"
So pass the word in the thick of the fight,
For England's honour and England's right!

What is it like, a cavalry charge in the dead of night? I can
scarcely tell,
For when it is over it's like a dream, and when you are in it a kind
of hell!
I should like you to see the officers lead--forgetting their swagger
and Bond Street air--
Like brothers and men at the head of the troop, while bugles echo and
troopers dare!
With a rush we are in it, and hard at work--there's scarcely a minute
to think or pause--
For right and left we are fighting hard for the regiment's honour and
country's cause!
Feather-bed warriors! On my life, be they Life Guards red or Horse
Guards blue,
They haven't lost much of the pluck, my boys, that their fathers
showed us at Waterloo!
It isn't for us, who are soldiers bred, to chatter of wars, be they
wrong or right;
We've to keep the oath that we gave our QUEEN! and when we are in
it--we've got to fight!
So pass the word, without any noise,
Bravo, Cavalry! Well done, boys!

Pass the word to the boys to-night, now that the battle is fairly
won.
A message has come from the EMPRESS-QUEEN--just what we wanted--
a brief "Well done!"
The sword and stirrup are sorely stained, and the pistol barrels are
empty quite,
And the poor old charger's piteous eyes bear evidence clear of the
desperate fight.
There's many a wound and many a gash, and the sun-burned face is
scarred and red;
There's many a trooper safe and sound, and many a tear for the "pal"
who's dead!
I care so little for rights and wrongs of a terrible war; but the
world at large--
It knows so well when duty's done!--it will think sometimes of our
cavalry charge!
Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! we have solemnly taken an
oath! and then,
In all the battles throughout the world, we have followed our fathers
like Englishmen!
So pass this blessing the lips between--
'Tis the soldier's oath--GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

MAFEKING.

"_ADSUM!_"

BY REV. A. FREWEN AYLWARD.

At the evening roll call at the "Charterhouse" School, where Baden-Powell was educated, it is customary for the boys to respond to the call of their names by saying "Adsum--I'm here!"

Oft as the shades of evening fell,
In the school-boy days of old,--
The form work done, or the game played well,--
Clanging aloft the old school bell
Uttered its summons bold;
And a bright lad answered the roll call clear,
"Adsum,--I'm here!"

A foe-girt town and a captain true
Out on the Afric plain;--
High overhead his Queen's flag flew,
But foes were many and friends but few;
Who shall guard that flag from stain?
And calm 'mid confusion a voice rang clear,
"Adsum,--I'm here!"

The slow weeks passed, and no succour came,
Famine and death were rife;
Yet still that banner of deathless fame,
Floated, unsullied by fear or shame,
Over the scene of strife;
And the voice,--though weaker--was full of cheer,
"Adsum,--I'm here!"

Heaven send, that when many a heart's dismayed,
In dark days yet in store,--
Should foemen gather; or, faith betrayed,
The country call for a strong man's aid
As she never called before,--
A voice like his may make answer clear,
Banishing panic, and calming fear,
"Adsum,--I'm here!"

THE FIGHT AT RORKE'S DRIFT

(January 23, 1879.)

BY EMILY PFEIFFER.

It was over at Isandula, the bloody work was done, And the yet unburied dead looked up unblinking at the sun; Eight hundred men of Britain's best had signed with blood the story Which England leaves to time, and lay there scanted e'en of glory.

Stewart Smith lay smiling by the gun he spiked before he died; But gallant Gardner lived to write a warning and to ride A race for England's honour and to cross the Buffalo, To bid them at Rorke's Drift expect the coming of the foe.

That band of lusty British lads camped in the hostile land Rose up upon the word with Chard and Bromhead to command; An hour upon the foe that hardy race had barely won, But in it all that men could do those British lads had done.

And when the Zulus on the hill appeared, a dusky host, They found our gallant English boys' 'pale faces' at their post; But paler faces were behind, within the barricade-- The faces of the sick who rose to give their watchers aid.

Five men to one the first dark wave of battle brought, it bore Down swiftly, while our youngsters waited steadfast as the shore; Behind the slender barricade, half-hidden, on their knees, They marked the stealthy current glide beneath the orchard trees.

Then forth the volley blazed, then rose the deadly reek of war; The dusky ranks were thinned; the chieftain slain by young Dunbar, Rolled headlong and their phalanx broke, but formed as soon as broke, And with a yell the furies that avenge man's blood awoke.

The swarthy wave sped on and on, pressed forward by the tide, Which rose above the bleak hill-top, and swept the bleak hill-side; It rose upon the hill, and, surging out about its base, Closed house and barricade within its murderous embrace.

With savage faces girt, the lads' frail fortress seemed to be An island all abloom within a black and howling sea; And only that the savages shot wide, and held the noise As deadly as the bullets, they had overwhelmed the boys.

Then in the dusk of day the dusky Kaffirs crept about The bushes and the prairie-grass, to rise up with a shout, To step as in a war-dance, all together, and to fling Their weight against the sick-house till they made its timbers spring.

When beaten back, they struck their shields, and thought to strike with fear Those British hearts,--their answer came, a ringing British cheer! And the volley we sent after showed the Kaffirs to their cost The coolness of our temper,--scarce an ounce of shot was lost.

And the sick men from their vantage at the windows singled out From among the valiant savages the bravest of the rout; A pile of fourteen warriors lay dead upon the ground By the hand of Joseph Williams, and there led up to the mound

A path of Zulu bodies on the Welshman's line of fire Ere he perished, dragged out, assegaied, and trampled in their ire; But the body takes its honour or dishonour from the soul, And his name is writ in fire upon our nation's long bead-roll.

Yet, let no name of any man be set above the rest, Where all were braver than the brave, each better than the best, Where the sick rose up as heroes, and the sound had hearts for those Who, in madness of their fever, were contending as with foes.

For the hospital was blazing, roof and wall, and in its light The Kaffirs showed like devils, till so deadly grew the fight That they cowered into cover, and one moment all was still, When a Kaffir chieftain bellowed forth new orders from the hill.

Then the Zulu warriors rallied, formed again, and hand to hand We fought above the barricade; determined was the stand; Our fellows backed each other up,--no wavering and no haste, But loading in the Kaffirs' teeth, and not a shot to waste.

We had held on through the dusk, and we had held on in the light Of the burning house; and later, in the dimness of the night, They could see our fairer faces; we could find them by their cries, By the flash of savage weapons and the glare of savage eyes.

With the midnight came a change--that angry sea at length was cowed, Its waves still broke upon us, but fell fainter and less loud; When the 'pale face' of the dawn rose glimmering from his bed The last black sullen wave swept off and bore away the dead.

That island all abloom with English youth, and fortified With English valour, stood above the wild, retreating tide; Those lads contemned Canute, and shamed the lesson that he read,-- For them the hungry waves withdrew, the howling ocean fled.

Britannia, rule, Britannia! while thy sons resemble thee, And are islanders, true islanders, wherever they may be; Island fortified like this, manned with islanders like these, Will keep thee Lady of thy Land, and Sovereign of all Seas!

RELIEVED!

(_AT MAFEKING_.)

Said he of the relieving force,
As through the town he sped,
"Art thou in Baden-Powell's Horse?"
The trooper shook his head,
Then drew his hand his mouth across,
Like one who's lately fed.
"Alas! for Baden-Powell's horse--
It's now in me," he said.--_Daily Express_.

HOW SAM HODGE WON THE VICTORIA CROSS.

BY WILLIAM JEFFREY PROWSE.

Just a simple little story I've a fancy for inditing;
It shows the funny quarters in which chivalry may lodge,
A story about Africa, and Englishmen, and fighting,
And an unromantic hero by the name of Samuel Hodge.

"Samuel Hodge!" The words in question never previously filled a
Conspicuous place in fiction or the Chronicles of Fame;
And the Blood and Culture critics, or the Rosa and Matilda
School of Novelists would shudder at the mention of the name.

It was up the Gambia River--and of _that_ unpleasant station
It is chiefly in connection with the fever that we hear!--
That my hero with the vulgar and prosaic appellation
Was a private--mind, a private!--and a sturdy pioneer.

It's a dreary kind of region, where the river mists arising
Roll slowly out to seaward, dropping poison in their track.
And accordingly few gentlemen will find the fact surprising
That a rather small proportion of our garrison comes back!

It is filthy, it is foetid, it is sordid, it is squalid;
If you tried it for a season, you would very soon repent;
But the British trader likes it, and he finds a reason solid
For the liking, in his profit at the rate of cent, per cent.

And to guard the British traders, gallant men and merry younkers,
In their coats of blue and scarlet, still are stationed at the
post,
Whilst the migratory natives, who are known as "Tillie-bunkas,"
Grub up and down for ground-nuts and chaffer on the coast.

Furthermore, to help the trader in his laudable vocation,
We have heaps of little treaties with a host of little kings,
And, at times, the coloured caitiffs in their wild inebriation,
Gather round us, little hornets, with uncomfortable stings.

To my tale:--The King of Barra had been getting rather "sarsy,"
In fact, for such an insect, he was coming it too strong,
So we sent a small detachment--it was led by Colonel D'Arcy--
To drive him from his capital of Tubabecolong!

Now on due investigation, when his land they had invaded,
They learnt from information which was brought them by the guides
That the worthy King of Barra had completely _barra_caded
The spacious mud-construction where his majesty resides.

"At it, boys!" said Colonel D'Arcy, and himself was first to enter,
And his fellows tried to follow with the customary cheers;
Through the town he dashed impatient, but had scarcely reached the
centre
Ere he found the task before him was a task for pioneers.

For so strongly and so stoutly all the gates were palisaded,
The supports could never enter if he did not clear a way:--
But Sammy Hodge, perceiving how the foe might be "persuaded,"
Had certain special talents which he hastened to display.

Whilst the bullets, then, were flying, and the bayonets were glancing Whilst the whole affair in fury rather heightened than relaxed, With axe in hand, and silently, our pioneer advancing SMOTE THE GATE; AND BADE IT OPEN; AND IT DID--AS IT WAS AXED!

L'ENVOI.

Just a word of explanation, it may save us from a quarrel,
I have really no intention--'twould be shameful if I had,
Of preaching you a blatant, democratic kind of moral;
For the "swell, you know," the D'Arcy, fought as bravely as the
"cad!"

Yet I own that sometimes thinking how a courteous decoration
May be won by shabby service or disreputable dodge,
I regard with more than pleasure--with a sense of consolation--
The Victoria Cross "For Valour" on the breast of Sammy Hodge!

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

(October 25, 1857.)

BY R.T.S. LOWELL.

Oh! that last day in Lucknow fort!
We knew that it was the last:
That the enemy's mines had crept surely in,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death;
And the men and we all work'd on:
It was one day more, of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair young gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,
And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee:
"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said,
"Oh! please then waken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor
In the flecking of wood-bine shade,
When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,
And the mother's wheel is stay'd.

It was smoke and roar, and powder-stench,
And hopeless waiting for death:
But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seem'd scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep, and I had my dream,
Of an English village-lane,
And wall and garden;--a sudden scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

Then Jessie Brown stood listening,
And then a broad gladness broke
All over her face, and she took my hand
And drew me near and spoke:

"_The Highlanders!_ Oh! dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa--
The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel;
It's the grandest o' them a'.

"God bless thae bonny Highlanders!
We're saved! we're saved!" she cried:
And fell on her knees, and thanks to God
Pour'd forth, like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry
Had fallen among the men:
And they started, for they were there to die:
Was life so near them then?

They listen'd, for life: and the rattling fire
Far off, and the far-off roar
Were all:--and the colonel shook his head,
And they turn'd to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said--"That slogan's dune;
But can ye no hear them, noo,--
_The Campbells are comin'?_ It's no a dream;
Our succours hae broken through!"

We heard the roar and the rattle afar
But the pipes we could not hear;
So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it must be heard,--
A shrilling, ceaseless sound:
It was no noise of the strife afar,
Or the sappers underground.

It _was_ the pipes of the Highlanders,
And now they play'd "_Auld Lang Syne_:"
It came to our men like the voice of God,
And they shouted along the line.

And they wept and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobb'd in a crowd:
And every one knelt down where we stood,
And we all thank'd God aloud.

That happy day when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;
And the General took her hand, and cheers
From the men, like a volley, burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,
For the pipes play'd "_Auld Lang Syne_."

A BALLAD OF WAR.

BY MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY.

(By permission of Messrs. Isbister & Co.)

"Oh! were you at war in the red Eastern land?
What did you hear, and what did you see?
Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand?
Sent he, by you, any dear word to me?"

"I come from red war, in that dire Eastern land;
Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see;
But I know not your son with his sword in his hand;
If you would hear of him, paint him to me."

"Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May!"
"'Tis not a gentle place where I have been."
"Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day!"
"Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen."

"Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done.
Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three:
You said you saw three--I am sure he did one.
My heart shall discern him, and cry, 'This is he!'"

"I saw a man scaling a tower of despair,
And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud."
"That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?"
"Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won,
And they said it was grand for a man to die so."
"Alas for his mother! He was not my son.
Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe?"

"I saw a man charging in front of his rank,
Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die:
Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank
Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won,
And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air.
Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son;
Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair."

"Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose;
I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard
Two legends of fame from the land of our foes;
But you said there were three; you must tell me the third."

"I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly
In a battery's face; but it was not to slay:
A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die,
With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay.

"He carried the boy like a babe through the rain,
The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell;
And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain,
Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy.
Such a death is more noble than life (so they said).
He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy,
And his name"--"Speak it not! 'Tis my son! He is dead!

"Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree,
Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam!
And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me,
For I shall be ready before he comes home.

"And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath,
And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading years--
How he died his noble and beautiful death,
And his mother who longed for him, died of her tears.

"But what is this face shining in at the door,
With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair?
Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore?
Do not go back alone--let me follow you there!"

"Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain;
I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer.
Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain,
And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!"

THE ALMA.

(September 20, 1854.) BY RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea: Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known-- Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown. In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name, And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine, Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine, Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head, Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead. Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say-- When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away-- "He has pass'd from, us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side." Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose, Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old, Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold; And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done, By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won. Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free-- Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.

AFTER ALMA,

(September 20, 1854.)

BY GERALD MASSEY.