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 sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l of the six-inch gun.
For the sh.e.l.ls 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 sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l, And the sight we saw was a fearful one After that sh.e.l.l 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 sh.o.r.e 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 b.l.o.o.d.y day.
Then a h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.s, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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!