Ballads of the War | ||
The Wounded Piper of Elands-Laagte
How they charged the blazing kopje, how they cheered;
How the pipes were always skirling with a Gordon piper's will
Till the laagers and the rifle-pits were cleared.
For the flowers of bonnie Scotland lost and dead;
For the lads of our own Highlands on those highlands cast away
By the foemen and their torrent-rain of lead.
Just to think his pipes had played no victor's part;
And this is what the piper of the Gordons told to me,
When I found him after battle out of heart.
Little use in showing Doctor such an arm;
‘Serve you right, man,’ he would answer—he is straight as he is blunt;
‘Keep your pipes behind the boulders out of harm.’
Was I going out of action like a girl?
So I took a dead man's shirt and tore it strip-wise where I stood,
Bound the wound up tight and finished out the skirl.
Gave the bag a clip the tighter as I blew.
And with gallant Gordons round me, on I flew.
Oh the cry, ‘What price Majuba!’ Oh the shout!
If I live to be a hundred I shall not forget the roar,
As we stormed the ridge to turn the beggars out.
When, bayonets all aflame, the ridge we topped;
And I thought I still was playing, then there came a moment's lull,
And I listened and I heard the pipes had stopped.
And a hole right through my bag of Highland breath!
If you never won a battle, sir, you scarce can understand,
But I almost wish that ball had been my death.
With bone unbroke the wound will soon be right;
I am down at heart for thinking that my pipes just ceased to play
When the Boers at Elands-Laagte turned to flight.
Note.—The following extract is from a private letter written after the battle of Elands-Laagte: “I went round the Gordons' camp on the day following the battle, and I don't think I saw one man who did not bear some mark, either on his body or on his clothes, of the enemy's bullets. Some of them had their helmets riddled. The most pathetic of all the sights was a piper of the Gordons, who was sitting with a Boer's shirt tied round his arm, which was saturated with blood. He had been shot through the arm, and had bound up the wound himself. When I asked him to go and get the doctor to dress his wound, he simply replied that the doctor would only tell him he had no business to get wounded. He didn't seem to mind his wound a bit, but he wailed over his bagpipes, which were a new set just sent out from Edinburgh. He had got a bullet right through the bag, which rendered them useless.”
After the Battle
I tended the wounded, foe and friend;
I thought with myself that the very stones
Of the grim veldt-side,
If they could, would have cried,
“Doctor, don't touch them; let death make an end!”
A grey and grizzled old Boer I saw;
His whole right hand had been blown away;
But, quiet and calm,
He was reading a Psalm
From a blood-stained book of the ancient Law.
“Deliver me! haste to help me, Lord!
Let those who seek my hurt to a man
Be put to shame,
That so Thy name
Be great upon all who trust thy word.”
This hand shall never hold sickle again;
Lord, succour me!” groaned the grey-beard Boer;
“Tarry not! come
To take me home!
Lord, haste Thee, and help me out of this pain!”
To the grey old Boer from the Orange Free State—
The man who had fought for cattle and kind
With his sons, and sons'
Sons less than their guns,
To free his land from the men of their hate—
The Helper of helpless after the fray;
And his face grew pale with a wonderful calm,
And the Psalm-book dropped,
And the blood-jet stopped,
And the pain and the sorrow had passed away.
Note.—After one of the late battles in Natal, an old Boer was found badly wounded, propped up among some rough boulders upon a kopje side; his rifle was laid idly by him, and the old man appeared to be waiting for death, and was quietly reading his Bible.
In a Camp Hospital, Elands-Laagte
Commandeered for the fight;
They tried on me their Kaffir tricks,
They rained their curses, blows and kicks,
And swore to shoot outright.
That blood ran never thin.
I cried, “My brains may scattered be,
But Paul shall get no help from me
Against my kith and kin.”
The cowards, ten to one,
They bound me—I was forced to yield—
They drove me to the battle-field,
They lashed me to a gun.
The Lancers charged—I knelt
And prayed beside that limber's wheel;
May neither Boer nor Briton feel
What agonies I felt!
On, on the Lancers came.
“My God, have mercy, Thou art just!”
Then something smote me to the dust:—
The Lancers passed like flame.
I woke from swoon and night,
I found myself in doctor's hands,
Head broke—arms swoll'n and black from bands
They bound who bade me fight.
They cried, “Who did this deed?”
“Some black-heart rogue,” I answered—“Schiel.”
They muttered, “God made man! the De'il
Alone could sire such breed!”
God heard my prayer that day:—
And wounded sore—the wretch who tied
My arms to the limber—lay.
My tongue I had forgot;
But like a Highland torrent strong,
The Gaelic came to curse the wrong
Done to a loyal Scot.
Still hot it leaps within
At memory of those words we spake
In wrath at him who strove to make
Me fight my kith and kin.
Note.—An officer now in England, who was badly hurt at Elands-Laagte, tells a strange story. When charging the position a Lancer struck at an object, apparently a man, hiding behind a gun-limber, and then passed on to bestow his attentions elsewhere. Subsequently the object was found to be indeed a man, a man borne upon the Boer strength, and not only a man, but a Scotchman. His skull had been cracked by the Lancer, but he still remained at his post by the limber, though unconscious of all that was taking place around him, for it was discovered that his wrists had been tied behind him with stout cord, and his arms had similarly been tightly secured to the limber. In due time, the officer who tells this story and the Scot who had been so maltreated found themselves in a hospital ward together. Another person in that ward was “Colonel” Schiel, who lay wounded and a prisoner, the Scot and the
The Trooper who carried the Colonel in
Was loud as the sea on a winter's shore,
When he, the Colonel we loved so well,
Hit in the ankle stumbled and fell;
But up he rose with none to aid
And proudly he walked as he walked at parade,
And he smiled “the bone's whole tho' the ball went thro'
And a wound for the Queen is an honour due.”
So forward still to the kopje's crest
Went the Colonel of Colonels, loved the best.
As it smote him down, I can see the blood
Ooze thro' the khaki—can hear him say
“For Queen and country I needs must stay,
But forward ever brave lads until
The Boers are swept like chaff from the hill.”
The bullets sputtered and splashed the ground,
The Colonel groaned in his mortal pain
Chilled to the bone by the wind and rain.
My horse had been shot—alone I came
Into that hell of fury and flame;
And God be praised for the thought of the thing,
For thoughts are swift when the bullets sing;
A voice seemed to say, “Tho' it's ten to one
Against the chance of its being done,
Trooper, the thing for you is to strive
To bring in the Colonel, dead or alive.”
And I lifted him tenderly up from the ground,
Thank God! he was breathing, though faint from his wound;
And heavily weighted—painful and slow,
Backward I came, full in face of the foe.
And the bullets hissed, and the bullets stung,
And suddenly one of my arms down hung;
Yet I knew no pain, but forward prest,
For I thought of the Colonel we loved the best.
And I knew I was bearing a man stone-dead;
Shot, as I carried him home, thro' the head;
Ah! never from Elands-Laagte's fray
A nobler spirit went home that day.
You will win the shelter. Well done! well done!
Trooper, the thing for you is to strive
To bring in your Colonel, dead or alive.”
So I stumbled on with the Colonel brave
And brought him in safe to a soldier's grave.
Note.—A trooper in the Imperial Light Horse, who is at present in Maritzburg on sick leave, stated that he saw Colonel Scott-Chisholm shot, and describes the incident as follows:— “Well on in the engagement at Elands-Laagte the Colonel, who had been running about fearlessly, directing the troops, was suddenly seen to drop, and on examination it was found that he had received a wound in the calf of the leg. The wound, however, did not appear to be very serious, for the Colonel rose to his feet and made to rejoin his company. He had only proceeded a short distance, however, when he was again shot, this time in the groin, and he sank to the ground. The fire around him was very heavy at the time, but, notwithstanding, a trooper, whose name, we believe, is Benson, rushed forward, and, after some little difficulty, succeeded in raising the Colonel and putting him across his shoulders. He then hurried as fast as he could towards a shelter, but on the way the Colonel was shot a third time, the bullet on this occasion entering his head and causing immediate death. The trooper was also wounded in his gallant and humane effort, and we understand he is now in the camp hospital at Maritzburg.”—Times of Natal.
How the Naval Guns came to Ladysmith
Bring us your hearts and your guns to our aid!”
'Tween decks with work then for twenty was each hour full.
Jack of the Powerful is Jack of every trade.
Boers shall learn what British words lyddite shells can say!
Steam ahead my beauties now! stoke your fires and feed them well!
Ladysmith is calling us six hundred miles away!
Thro' the cold and thro' the heat, eyes before, behind,
Scanning bush and scrub and hill and gully for a foeman,
Fearing every bridge was sawn, every culvert mined.
Neared at last the mountain gates meant for barricade.
Shall we find our passage barred, rails all up, we wondered,
Shall we win to Ladysmith, be in time to aid?
Over the Tugela, and by grim Hlangwane's hill.
Ladysmith! Ah, how the folk all shouted at the sight of us
—Gunners of the Powerful, come with heart and will.
Swift we laid our beauties, for the fight raged far and near,
Out of heaven each good Four-Seven thundered—“Jack is here.”
Fell our gift of Lyddite—he was silent for a space.
All the people crowded round and praised the good ship Powerful.
Blessed the guns and blessed the tars and thanked God for his grace.
Note.—Mr. Balfour, speaking at Ardwick on 8th January, 1900, said: “Was there ever anything done with greater promptness and heroism than the sending of the naval guns of H.M.S. Powerful to the relief of Ladysmith? Capetown is 600 miles away from Ladysmith. I am unable to say exactly the number of hours, but in an incredible space of time from the receipt of the telegram asking for guns, the Powerful was turned into a workshop, the guns were provided with suitable mountings, were unshipped, and entrained, and were on their adventurous journey.”
Those guns arrived just in the nick of time; the train that carried them was the last train in. Their sudden appearance in the midst of the fight probably saved the day.
The Leonids and Ladysmith
And with cloud-armour on the brave earth passed
To meet the missiles Uranus once cast
Back to the sun, my heart was full of fears;
The cries of warrior hosts were in mine ears,
I heard in far-off fields the roar and blast
Of battle, saw fierce meteors flashing fast
Upon a cloud-girt town that rang with cheers.
Thro' flight of burning spears and flaming balls
Wheeled on, and went in triumph on her way,
My heart revived, my hope again had birth—
For safe beneath those stern-beleaguered walls
Methought Great Britain still unconquered lay.
Death Aboard our Transports
TO ALL WHO IT MAY CONCERN
Some darker, deeper halls of doom await
The rogues, who did for gain this deed of hate!
The slaves to Mammon's lust who dared to sell
Death to the crews they catered for—so well!
So smilingly! then sent them to their fate
Poisoned by garbage, while their horses ate
Mildew for hay, and sickened, starved, and fell.
So demonised thy merchants? can our land
Nurse such dark traitors, rear such serpent brood—
As stings unseen, numbs brotherhood at the heart,
Slays honour, and unnerves the soldier's hand
By sense of treacherous vile ingratitude?
To Winston Churchill
Has failed us at our need,
Still does the name of Churchill ring like gold,
Whether at Omdurman
A warrior in the van,
Or, where the Estcourt ridges are uprolled,
He, having just ungirt his sword, took pen
To fight as brave for us home-staying men.
Was wrecked, and fast as rain
Boer bullets fell on our devoted band,
Did not this swordless one
Remember great deeds done,
And, hero, call on heroes all to stand?
Did he not clear the wreckage, rails relay,
And speed the wounded on their homeward way?
Did he not backward start,
Clutch rifle, turn again to face the foe,
To fight—if need be, fall—
For country, Queen, and all
That made him great those many years ago?
Ah! Churchill, let the thanks of Britain be
The balm and calm of your captivity.
Note.—The following letter has been forwarded to the General Manager of the Railways by Inspector Campbell, of the Natal Government Railways, writing on behalf of the railway employés who escaped with the armoured train:— “Sir,—The railway men who accompanied the armoured train this morning ask me to convey to you their admiration of the coolness and pluck displayed by Mr. Winston Churchill, the war correspondent who accompanied the train, and to whose efforts, backed up by those of the driver Wagner, is due the fact that the armoured engine and tender were brought successfully out after being hampered by the derailed trucks in front, and that it became possible to bring the wounded in here. The whole of our men are loud in their praises of Mr. Churchill, who, I regret to say, has been taken prisoner. I respectfully ask you to convey their admiration to a brave man.”
Estcourt, Wednesday, 8 p.m.—All the survivors praise Mr. Churchill's conduct. When the wreckage was cleared the engine-driver, who was wounded in the head, began to retire, but Mr. Churchill called him to come back, saying, “A man is never hit twice.” The man brought back the engine, and Mr. Churchill then helped to carry the wounded to the tender and accompanied them back to Frere. There he jumped down with a rifle and ran towards the enemy.
An Estcourt Hero
When next I lie in a tightish place,
With the enemy's bullets raining down—
Shot thro' the arm—and blood on my face
From the man whose brains to the winds are blown,
With nothing to help but the love of God,
I shall pray he will send to mend my case,
A second Orderly-Sergeant Tod.
It was you who saw when the Captain fell;
It was you who, in face of the fusilade,
Gathered the boulders and placed them well,
As fence from the bullets to lend him aid;
You built up the stones, you packed the sod,
And there by his side, to cheer him, laid
Your own brave body's length, Sergeant Tod.
A Hero of Belmont
And every warrior soul
Receives his meed for help to Fatherland,
They will remember him
Who till the stars grew dim
Led straight for Belmont heights his light horse band,
Milton, the Major, whom with praise we crown,
By bravery's right, the King of the King's Own.
He cheered them to the fray,
And when in ambush fall'n his men retired,
Gave up his horse to bear
A trooper from the snare,
And calmly, though a hundred rifles fired,
Walked, as a man walks whistling o'er the heath,
From forth the zone of bullets winged with death.
Far other debts we owe
To him who bore it in the days of yore;
But in your deed there sings
Music of noble things—
The music that shall Paradise restore;
Sound of the poems only heroes make
Who dare all death, for brotherhood's sweet sake.
Note.—A telegram from the special correspondent of The Times, after describing the battle of Belmont, said:—
“Special gallantry was displayed by Major Milton, King's Own York Light Infantry. At the close of the action the Mounted Infantry he was leading fell into an ambush and fled. He supplied a trooper, whose horse had been killed, with his own, then walked away under heavy fire.”
A Gallant Midshipman
When once again these rivers peaceful flow,
In this wild place a sea-born flower shall grow,
A flower that loved the salt wind and the sand—
The flower of daring. Crimson shall expand
The heart-shaped petals, so that men shall know
Its roots have kindred with the heart below
That gave its crimson blood for Fatherland.
Fell wounded, rose, marched forward, fell again,
Rose up and with his fellows clomb the hill;
To death thrice smitten—scorning shot and shell,
And heedless of the blood-drench and the pain
So he might serve his Queen and country still.
Sir,—It may interest your readers to have further confirmation as to how our gallant officers at the front are doing and dying. I beg, therefore, to enclose copy of a letter received by me from the Admiralty.
A brother Naval officer also writes:—“At the bottom of the hill he was hit in the arm, and half-way up he was shot in the leg, but still pressed on. On reaching the top of the kopje he was shot through the stomach, and fell, mortally wounded.”
I am, Sir, your obedient servant, James Huddart. Eastbourne, January 2.“Sir,—I am commanded by my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to inform you that, in a letter dated 26th ult., Captain Marchant, R.M.L.I., who was left in command of the Naval Brigade with Lord Methuen's force after the action at Graspan, reported as follows:—‘It is with deep regret that I have to report the death of Midshipman Huddart, who behaved magnificently, and still advanced after he had been twice wounded, until he was finally struck down mortally wounded.’
“I am, Sir, your obedient servant, (Sgd.) “Evan Macgregor.”Bible v. Bullet
In a single page of the printed Word:
The God of battles with Truth can break
Rifle and cannon and spear and sword.
Fresh from the Veldt with my rifle at trail,
I knew that the Vision of John was sure,
And the Spirit of God, not might, would prevail.
The Stars of Heaven fell unto the earth:
The clouds with thunder apart were rolled,
And the hills were moved from the place of their birth.
To show what shortly shall come to pass,
When with stars and with thunder of battle line,
We meet and the foemen fall like grass.
And the rich, and the captains and mighty men,
Bondmen and free to the rocks shall flee
And hide them each in the mountain den.
“Fall on us; hide us from Him on the Throne,
For the day of the wrath of the God is nigh,
And who shall be able to stand alone.”
That chapter six of the Book was proved;
For all night long star fell upon star,
And all day through the hills were moved.
Chanced on a stranger. I sprung with a call,
Forth for his taking, and bade him yield,
But I felt God's Word was far better than ball.
And I motioned him mark God's Word was sure
There at the chapter six:—so took
My way—an ignorant Veldt-side Boer.
Note.—“The Hon. George Peel, who was present at the battle of Belmont, got into a warm corner, the bullets flying thickly around him, and as he was only a spectator, he prudently scrambled back to the rear of the fighting line. After resting, he started again for the purpose of exploring, when he found himself suddenly in the enemy's camp. An old Boer jumped up from behind a rock, and Mr. Peel prepared to sell his life dearly, when, instead of a bullet, the Boer offered him a Bible, open at Revelation, and then fled precipitately.”— (Daily Telegraph), Cape Town Times, November 27, 1899.
At the Grave of Major Scott Turner
No rifle speak, no cannon thunder loud;
A prince of manliness and soldier-grace
Lies silent in his shroud!
Laughed at the scratch, and careless of all pain
Would hide his hurt and sorrow out of sight,
And sally forth again.
For our sakes led the desperate venture out,
Stormed battery after battery-mound, and fell
Dead at the fourth redoubt.
With wailing blast the bugle make replies!
Others he saved, himself he would not save,
And now in peace he lies.
We cannot grudge the tireless warrior rest:
He served his Queen unflinchingly, and died
The death he loved the best.
Sail Away “Tantallon”
To the public-spirited promoters of the Portland War Hospital, who sailed on board the Tantallon Castle for the Cape, Saturday, December 9th.
Each voice speeding sends,
Sail away Tantallon
With our gallant friends!
Underneath the hill,
Leave the yew-trees growing
Quaintly at your will.
Leave the banks of Lune,
This your work is Heaven's,
Britain feels the boon.
Gentle-hearted dame,
Modder and Tugela
Soon shall know your name.
And the cannon's breath,
Tear the wounds asunder
You will bind from death.
Passionately plan
Pity of a woman,
Mercy of a man.
Dared the thing to prove,
Others dreamed—you wrought it
This your deed of love.
Now would bid you stay,
Sail away, Tantallon
Safe to Table Bay.
Lords in love's employ,
Bentinck! Bagot! bless you!
Come again with joy.
The Black Watch
And bitter was the rain,
When, solid column, forth we stepped
O'er Magersfontein plain.
What should the morrow be?
And backward still our thoughts we sent
To Britain over sea.
And through the darkness smiled
The mother with her babe at play,
The laughing elder child.
To think upon the slain;
And we, we lie a murdered heap
On Magersfontein plain.
Carbineers to the Rescue
To each other were truer than steel?
When the bullets sing loud in your ears,
To halt and to wheel,
And to dash to the rescue, needs nerve
Such as only a hero can feel.
By the kopjes on Arundel height,
When the sergeant gave sudden alarm,
The Boers are in sight!
And a hundred came galloping down—
Little chance had the seven but flight.
Collis turned, caught the riderless black,
Helped remount, when more swift than I tell,
The horse reeled to the crack
Of a rifle; but dauntless to save
The lieutenant went scurrying back.
He cried, as they sped on their way;
But fate to their speed was unkind,
For a rifle cried stay!
And the horse that was bearing them both
Stone-dead to a Boer bullet lay.
Of the Boers, his lieutenant to aid,
But his horse, doubly weighted, lost pace;
Collis knew it and said,
“I must try my own luck in this game,”
Though more desperate never was played!
He had wheeled and to Collis he flew,
“Mount, sir, or we both pay one price
To the fiends who pursue!”
So Collis took crupper and sprang,
And the horse to his burden went true.
Collis cried “Save yourself! see, I go,
And right glad so alive you get back;
Let the Carbineers know,
If I die, I shall carry to Heaven
Unpaid the large love that I owe.”
Then Freeman, his blood on his rein,
Rode back—“Now, Lieutenant, a lift,
My horse will take twain!”
Collis answered, “Nay! peril your life?
Better one than that two should be slain.”
For he left his lieutenant for dead,
But the Boer bullets beat in the race,
And with hands over head,
As the horse reeled, his rider went down—
Brave soul from brave body had fled.
You who live to this day you can tell
That the heroes who turned in their flight,
And the hero who fell,
Not alone helped each other that day,
They helped all the brave world as well.
Note.—The Daily Telegraph published the following from its Special Correspondent:—
Arundel, Tuesday, 8.35 p.m.I am able to record some conspicuous acts of heroism during a reconnaisance this morning by Lieutenant Collis, of the Carabineers, of the enemy's position. Lieutenant Collis was in command of a patrol of six men. After examining a farmhouse where they were told by the farmer that no Boers were near, the little force proceeded to reconnoitre the farmside, from which a line of kopjes ran up to the enemy's position. They had got within 800 yards of the latter when Boers on horseback were observed coming down. As the patrol moved away Private Ross's horse fell. Though the Boers were now within 300 yards, Lieutenant Collis and Sergeant Freeman galloped back to give him assistance. No sooner had Ross remounted than his horse was shot. Lieutenant Collis again went back, and got him to mount behind on his own horse. The couple had ridden some fifty yards when the Lieutenant's horse was dropped by a bullet. Both then took to their heels. Private Dodson came back and insisted on Lieutenant Collis getting up behind him. This he did, but finding when they had gone a short distance that the horse was unable to carry both, he again dismounted. Private Dunn returned, and Lieutenant Collis mounted behind him. As, however, the Boers rapidly gained on them, he dropped off and ordered Dunn to save himself. Sergeant Freeman, although by this time wounded, galloped back to save his officer. Lieutenant Collis refused assistance, and directed the sergeant to make good his escape. Hardly had he turned away when the rider and horse were shot. Finding that Sergeant Freeman was mortally wounded, Lieutenant Collis ran some hundred and fifty yards, and then concealed himself in the scrub. The Boers came up and examined Sergeant Freeman as he lay on the ground. They fired several shots in the direction of Lieutenant Collis, and then retreated. After walking four miles Lieutenant Collis came upon a patrol of the Inniskillings and safely reached camp. Private Ross is missing. These gallant deeds took place under a heavy fire at close range.
At the Burial of General Wauchope
“The flowers of the forest are all weed away!”
Light from the blood of the sunset sky is failing,
Long from our hearts has faded all the day.
Stream that ran red with our passion and our gore!
Here, by their shallow grave, forty men are lying,
Men who shall hear Modder sobbing so no more.
Men with fierce lips unloosened still in death,
Men praised in peace, and the first of warrior races
Dead—ere a bayonet was drawn from its sheath.
What do they look for so fixedly and fain?
They look for the laird whom his comrades four are bearing.
They wait for the general to lead them once again.
Arms all reversed, but as proud as on parade,
Comes with the chieftain who faced his doom so scornfully,
All that is left of them—the Highlanders' Brigade.
Mingle their tollings with the pipers' sound,
Hark! lamentations of the Niddry people
Mourning in pit-villages, and moaning underground.
Greet them again with a smile and merry word?
You, with the laird's heart of honour ever near them;
They, with their honour for your home-love and your sword.
Rest with your Highlanders, painless, battlefree!
Mouths firmly-set, rifles gripped and fist fierce shaken,
These wake and watch, these avengers shall be.
Love yet may bloom by fateful Modder shore!
But never hearts shall hear with such appealing
Pipes play o'er fallen ones, “Lochaber no more.”
Note.—The description of the burial of General Wauchope given by the Daily News correspondent is as follows:—
“Three hundred yards to the rear of the little township of Modder River, just as the sun was sinking in a blaze of African splendour, on the evening of Tuesday, the 13th of December, a long shallow grave lay exposed in the breast of the veldt. To the westward the broad river, fringed with trees, ran murmuringly, to the eastward the heights still held by the enemy scowled menacingly; north and south the veldt undulated peacefully; a few paces to the northward of that grave fifty Highlanders lay, dressed as they had fallen on the field of battle; they had followed their chief to the field, and they were to follow him to the grave. How grim and stern those dead men looked as they lay face upward to the sky, with great hands clenched in the last death agony, and brows still knitted with the stern lust of the strife in which they had fallen. The plaids dear to every Highland clan were represented there, and, as I looked, out of the distance came the sound of the pipes;
Right up to the grave they marched, then broke away in companies, until the General lay in the shallow grave with a Scottish square of armed men around him; only the dead man's son and a small remnant of his officers stood with the chaplain and the pipers whilst the solemn service of the Church was spoken. Then once again the pipes pealed out, and “Lochaber No More” cut through the stillness like a cry of pain, until one could almost hear the widow in her Highland home moaning for the soldier she would welcome back no more. Then, as if touched by the magic of one thought, the soldiers turned their tear-damp eyes from the still form in the shallow grave towards the heights where Cronje, the “lion of Africa,” and his soldiers stood. Then every cheek flushed crimson, and the strong jaws set like steel, and the veins on the hands that clasped the rifle handles swelled almost to bursting with the fervour of the grip, and that look from those silent armed men spoke more eloquently than ever spoke the tongues of orators. For on each frowning face the spirit of vengeance sat, and each sparkling eye asked silently for blood.”
A Timely Confession
We do confess our sin that it was great,
Strong in our pride, contemptuous in debate,
We scorned the farm-bred patriarchal Boer;
We let the diamond dust and golden lure
Dim and bedazzle eyes half-blind for hate,
Dreamed war begun and ended, set the date;
And planned as if our victory were secure.
Of this Heaven-ordered, this imperial realm,
Thou hast decreed that, humbled to the dust
By these veldt shepherds and their mountain wall,
We should, ere arrogant bluster overwhelm,
Learn that our God who made us great is just.
Resolute
Not with light-hearted boast of man and power
To tread the burgher under—in this hour
Of solemn pause, disastrous pain and death,
Does Britain once again her sword unsheath;
Rather with thought of that transcendent dower
Of strength that in adversity will flower,
She turns to claim once more the victor's wreath.
Fierce serpent spite is hissing round the earth!
—“Behold, the Titan totters on his throne!”
But resolute love and loyalty have birth,
And out of Heaven an angel trumpet calls,—
“Not yet for God the allotted task is done!”
The Sailing of the “Maine”
Is it she who sank to her tomb
With death and war in her womb?
She for whose loss and whose pain
The great West fought against Spain?
With life for the Motherland,
Love from the Brotherland.
Lo, from the deeps has she risen again?
Give us your silence and your calm,
So, more swift with her balm
And healing for all who need,
The “Maine” to their succour shall speed,
With help from the Brotherland,
Hope for the Motherland,
Blessing and joy by her merciful deed.
God give her stars all the night,
God give her mariners might.
Never the engines stay,
The thanks of the Motherland,
Health from the Brotherland,
These are her passengers bound for the Bay.
Hides in her heart evermore,
Prays as he sails from the shore,
So are we praying that none
Ever forget this deed done.
Love of the Brotherland,
Life for the Motherland,
Now shall the nations henceforward be one.
A Generous Life-Guardsman
And how I lived I cannot tell;
The whisker on my face was charred,
I saw the flash and fell.
Had wrapped his grey-white neckerchief
About his rifle—seemed to plead
So sorely for relief.
A cry for help can understand.
I could not talk his catawaul,
And so I reached a hand—
His rifle round, and straight let fly;
I, swifter still, as swift as thought
Ducked, and the ball went by.
I dashed his rifle stock in two;
And talked in British language he
Seemed quite to feel was due.
God grant me pardon, how I swore;
I cursed till heart was satisfied
And breath could curse no more.
There lay the wounded, tattered man.
He looked at me—I looked at him—
And Pity through me ran.
He clutched it with a fevered grip,
Then motioned me to drink it first
And pledged me fellowship.
A picture of a child and wife,
His tears rained down, and well I knew
How sore he needed life.
He seemed to know what words I meant,
And so I bore him like a child
Back to the doctor's tent.
Note.—At one of the battles of the Relief Column on its way to Kimberley, a guardsman went forward to succour a wounded Boer who had put up a white flag. The Boer fired on him at close quarters, but the bullet missed its billet. The gallant guardsman disarmed his treacherous enemy, and took him back to the hospital tent.
An Arm-Chair Critic
If the cat purred loud I should turn to scold;
Flowers from Italy scent the air,
The servant who gave the paper a fold
Rustled it well, as if to say,
“News from the front, my lord, to-day.”
Deaf for the cannon, black for the smoke,
The last faint flower of hope is dim,
The foe through the strongest lines have broke.
Famished, they fold tired hands and say,
“To die is all we can do to-day.”
Of what born fools our generals are—
I, whose millions were made in the Rand;
I, for whose mines we are now at war—
And all I find in my heart to say
Is, let who love fighting fight—I pay.
“Methuen's incompetent! Buller's a fool!
The War Office, hardly able to walk,
Must go to a French or a German school.”
Sirs, if we Britons talk this way,
No wonder the battle was lost to-day!
A Man of Straw at Ladysmith
A Tommy full of chaff and daring;
The Boer commando wondered why,
They cocked their rifles and let fly,
But not a straw was Tommy caring.
As unconcerned as any mummy
He stood his ground; alive or dead,
He little recked of bullet lead,
For he was just a well-stuffed dummy.
And sent to Joubert for to ax him
A big gun Tommy to displace;
But he was bold enough to face
The music still of gun or Maxim.
And while all Ladysmith is laughing—
To think she fooled the Boerish wits,
Chaff-stuffed, poor Tommy goes to bits,
And all the marksmen get is—chaffing.
Note.—The following is an extract from a letter written by a correspondent of the Natal Witness, who escaped from Ladysmith:—
“Several of our soldiers were guilty of very shabby tricks on the guileless Boer. A squadron of Lancers in one of their patrols took with them one day a Lancer of straw. This figure was left near the Boer position, and viewed from a distance looked a veritable cavalryman. The figure was left on a rock, and it was not long before the Boers were having shots at the soldier who so daringly exposed himself. Mauser bullets had no effect, and it is alleged that, getting exasperated, the Boers turned one of their big guns on the dummy. The truth was discovered only after a vast quantity of ammunition had been wasted. The Liverpools one day set up a row of effigies, and the Boers were driven nearly crazy by the indifference these men showed to their fire. Then there was the bogus artillery some of our people constructed one night on the Town Lands in front of Umbulwana. There were figures of men and something which looked like 15-pounders. The Boers blazed away at this battery, and ‘knocked particular --- --- out of it,’ as an artilleryman, with many delighted grins, said, only to find out that they were being fooled.”
Old Mortality
A SKETCH AT LADYSMITH
With rifle, bible, luncheon-bag, and pipe,We saw him going forth each day to snipe;
We watched him on the foemen get his bead
Then fire, then turn his Holy Book to read,
That told how Israel smote a godless race,
How hip and thigh, at Heaven's august command
The Hebrew drove the Hivite from the land;
He could not wish the modern Hivites well
Seeing we hid in holes from shot and shell;
Or else from Kings he turned for hope and calm
To Kruger's late commended battle-psalm.
Then could we note how he would luncheon take
—His bit of biltong and his barley-cake,
Or sudden sighting scouts upon the hill
Would lay his rifle true again with skill;
Then scratch his head and fill his ancient pipe,
Puff clouds, till chance once more should bid him snipe;
And so till evening sit and smoke and read,
Or on the far-off foeman get his bead,
Then rise, and from his boulder steal away
In hopes of more success another day.
We called him “Old Mortality,” and came
Almost with love to think upon his name—
This Bible-reading, smoking, sniping Boer,
Whose shots were frequent tho' his bag was poor;
And tho' his humour was a little grim,
We sighed when Death the Sniper called for him.
Home from the Front for Christmas Day
My soul has slipped away,
I hardly felt the sting of wound
So savage was the fray.
We stormed the mountain side,
Where every boulder seemed to be
A rifle—and we died.
Turned longingly for home;
I passed o'er land and seas to find
That Christmastide had come.
The people walked to pray,
“God send us”—so I heard them hail—
“A merrier Christmas Day!”
“For Peace and for Goodwill,
Eight hundred wounded, lost or dead,
The Boers unshifted still!”
Poured forth, for others fell,
—Shocked into dying as they stood
By burst of British shell.”
My spirit eyes were dim,
I, too, went once with book in hand,
To sing the Christmas Hymn.
To greet the gathering crowd.
“The Christ is born, give praise to God,”
The eight bells rang aloud.
The church threw wide its door,
With Christmas look and Christmas charm,
And peace for rich and poor.
At her accustomed place,
Her face was hid, but ah! I felt
The tears were on her face.
In battle day,” she cried,
She knew not that her boy was dead,
And I was at her side.
My body rotting lay;
But she could hear the foeman gun
Boom murder far away.
Who knowing of Thy will,
Come worshipping on Christmas Day,
But send our lads to kill.”
Where'er men fighting are;
This is the day ordained for peace,
Then wherefore give us war?”
Isaiah's words of old;
I muttered, “Close that holy book,
Not peace ye seek, but gold.”
“Peace and on earth good-will.”
My spirit murmured, sorely vexed,
“Then Christians wherefore kill?”
Beside the pillar there,
So spake to God that still the place
It seemed a place of prayer.
And come from far away,
If but to know how mother cried
For peace, that Christmas Day.
War and the Old Folks' Creed
But some old friends are gone away;
Where'er they are, their rest is sweet—
We cannot wish them back to-day.
That plunges half a world in tears,
They live in peace a fuller life,
They know no pain of failing years.
Are not unhappy: crack and fun
Go forward, as if never sword
Were drawn, nor Boer had fired a gun.
From sorrow of the trumpet's call;
This is our sons' and daughters' war:
Their children fight, their children fall.
We know what Balaclava meant;
We heard the muskets round Cawnpore;
Our few came back, our many went.
Assembled at these tables say:
God never planned these wars and tears,
And Peace is the Diviner way.
Note.—At Keswick, each year, in Christmas week, all old people over 60 years are invited to what is locally known as “The Old Folks' Dinner.” These verses were recited at the Old Folks' Dinner of 1899.
To Lord Roberts
ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM ENGLAND AS COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF IN SOUTH AFRICA
Thundered in vain their storm upon the wall,
And sudden, caught by hail of rifle ball,
Our men and horse went down beside the guns;
Then learned we well how true the red blood runs
From sire to child, for many brave did fall,
But none more swift to hear his country's call
Than that heroic soul that is your son's.
Known by familiar name the army thro',
Go forth—the son who in these five short years
Had faced the Pathan, met the Mahdi's spears,
Lies in calm earth your hand must fight above,
That holy grave claims guardianship of you.
Britain's New Year
She hears the serpent hiss of whispering hate
Mutter “Behold this Britain, that is great,
Reels and from off her ancient throne is hurled.”
But still for right her banners are unfurled,
For justice are her sons confederate,
And bruised and brave she doth her hour await,
With resolute calm she fronts a wondering world.
Knowing that deeper far within her soul
Than greed of power or Mammon's deadly lust,
Lies hunger to fulfil her Heavenly trust,
And claiming equal good for far and near,
To bring fair Freedom to her ultimate goal.
The Last Question
The curse of battle has its antidote,His were brave words, heart-medicine to give,
Who dumb, because his face was shot away,
Took pencil in his dying hand, and wrote
Not—“Doctor, have I any time to live?”
But—“Doctor, did we win the fight to-day?”
To the Men of the Border Regiment, Cumberland sends thanks and greetings for 1900
Cumberland eyes are all gazing on you,
You who will answer when duty calls
To storm the terrible mountain walls.
From “spruit” and from “donga” to drive the foe,
Over the “drifts” to the rescue to go,
And shoulder to shoulder and hand to hand
To fight for your Queen and for Fatherland.
Borderers! Borderers! gallant and true!
Cumberland hearts are all praying for you,
Cumberland eyes and Cumberland prayers
Go with the Borderer boy who dares.
A Graveside Memory at Colesberg
Riddled with bullets, shattered with shell;
Never a cry was lifted o'er them,
Never a tear above them fell.
Muttered, “Poor fellows, so worn and thin!”
Helped us to hollow the trench to hide them,
Helped us to carefully lay them in.
All their battle wrath passed away;
It seemed the hearts of the sundered races
Were one for love of the dead that day.
“Ashes to ashes! dust to dust!”
And gave our mates to the last of nurses—
The pitiful earth in whose peace we trust.
Stepped to the grave and prayed a prayer,
Never a son of a British woman
But felt the breath of the Lord was there.
Prayed to the Father of foe and friend
To look from Heaven at last and stay it,
Make of this terrible war an end.
A hymn to the God of the warless years;
The tender heart of a girl came o'er us;
We sobbed, and turned from the grave in tears.
Note.—An old Bedford Modern boy, Rupert Brearey, now at the front with the R.A.M. Corps, writes as follows, from Colesberg, under date January 7th, 1900:—
“One of the Boer Medical Officers rode to us under a Red Cross flag and asked us to go and bury our dead, which, of course, we did. But the sight of those poor fellows lying on the hill, some of them dreadfully riddled with bullets, I can never forget. The Boers were very good; in fact, one would hardly have thought that they were our enemies. They talked to us quite freely, and helped us to dig the grave and to carry the dead. There was one very touching little incident. After our Major had read the Burial Service (from the Prayer Book L. and D. gave me in January, 1896), one of the Boers stepped out and said a short prayer, hoping the war would soon end, and while we stood with heads uncovered they sang a hymn in Dutch. It cut our fellows up very much indeed; in fact we could not speak for some time.”
The Dead Boy and the Dying Boer
My heart for a human heart is tough,
For a mounted policeman's life is hard,
And the ways of the veldt and the vaal are rough.
And felt as weak as a boy again,
For tears that had long forgotten to flow,
Came tumbling down on my hand like rain.
Propped on his arm: he was breathing fast:
I knew by the way the red blood ran,
And the sweat of his brow, that he could not last.
For a serpent scotched will sometimes turn,
And a snake in the grass is a wounded Boer,
As all who fight in the veldt may learn.
And he said, “My friend, too late! farewell!
Look to the others, leave me alone,
But where is the boy at my side when I fell.”
God meant for life, by the shattered gun,
And I saw in the midst a face with a smile
Set fast by Death,—I had found his son.
That boy at his side when the father fell,
And the cry of pity, the fierce embrace
Of dead with the dying, I scarce may tell.
For the old veldt farm it was good you died!”
Then his head sunk back in the last long swoon.
And father and son stood side by side.
Note.—This incident was described in a letter from one of the bearer companies' men after a battle:—
“We were out looking after the wounded at night, when the fight was over, when I came across an old, white-bearded Boer. He was lying behind a bit of rock supporting himself on his elbows. I was a bit wary of the old fellow at first. Some of these wounded Boers, we've found, are snakes in the grass. You go up to them with the best intentions. and the next thing you know is that the man you were going to succour is blazing at you with his gun.
“So,” the letter goes on, “I kept my eye on the old chap. But when I got near I saw that he was too far gone to raise his rifle. He was gasping hard for breath, and I saw he was not long for this world. He motioned to me that he wanted to speak, and I bent over him. He asked me to go and find his son—a boy of thirteen who had been fighting by his side when he fell.
“Well, I did as he asked me,” continues the writer, “and under a heap of wounded I found the poor lad, stone dead, and I carried him back to his father. Well, you know I'm not a chicken-hearted sort of a fellow. I have seen a bit of fighting in my time, and that sort of thing knocks all the soft out of a chap.
“But,” this correspondent confesses, “I had to turn away when the old Boer saw his dead lad. He hugged the body to him and moaned over it, and carried on in a way that fetched a big lump in my throat. Until that very moment I never thought how horrible war is. I never wanted to see another shot fired. And when I looked round again the old Boer was dead, clasping the cold hand of his dead boy.”
A Gunner's Story
She is a widow, she drew my pay;
I fell in trying to save the guns;
But my heart was glad when the ball went through;
How else could I dare to be talking with you,
Seeing we gave the guns away?
Light to gallop with, strong to stand,
None are made swifter death to deal;
But ah! I was glad when that ball went thro';
If I had been spared to be seen of you,
How could I face my native land?
Of foes in the river we had no thought;
Our Colonel wanted a closer range;
I was glad when the rifle-ball went thro',
How else should I dare to be talking with you,
Seeing we knew not what we ought?
When forth of the ambush volleyings came,
And every horse of the battery fell;
Ah! sir, I am glad that the ball went thro',
For now I can dare to be talking with you;
It is easier here to bear the blame,
And out of the silence, I tell you true,
We died at our guns and we both died game.
Note.—When the last shell had been fired, it is said that the two remaining gunners, rather than desert their gun, stood at attention and so died.
Another Philip Sydney
Colenso
The nation is at heart as one,
And wheresoe'er brave blood is shed,
We see the untarnished golden thread
First wove by Sydney's noble son.
Hodge found in war is of king's breed;
Deep down within his soldier mind
Is set the will to help his kind,
Even unto death, at comrade's need.
Of that ill-starred Colenso day,
There, on the ground, blood-drenched and bare
Was sudden of a true knight 'ware,
Who gave his life the royal way.
He writhed, his lips too parched to speak.
I knew a surgeon's help was vain,
Too long untended had he lain;
His breath came swift, his pulse was weak.
I cried aloud, “for God's dear grace
Give succour to a dying man!”
He stooped to bring his water-can
Full front before the fevered face.
The sun-baked lips, nigh black with thirst,
Moved, and I heard him slowly say:
“Others will need it more to-day,
My mate must feel its comfort first.
Tell him my share I gladly give,
I shall not last beyond the roar
Of battle, thirst will soon be o'er;
Bid him drink deep, thank God, and live.”
His thirst unquenched—to save a friend;
But he who waved that cup aside
Saw Christ smile on him ere the end.
Note.—The following little story is told by Mr. Frederick Treves, the well-known surgeon, in a letter he has sent to the British Medical Journal, detailing the battle of Colenso: “On all sides there is evidence that our soldiers behaved splendidly on the field, and I can say that when brought back wounded they were plucky, patient, and uncomplaining. Their unselfishness was many times very marked. An orderly was bringing some water to a wounded man lying on the ground near me. He was shot through the abdomen, and he could hardly speak owing to the dryness of his mouth, but he said, ‘Take it to my pal first; he is worse hit than me.’ This generous lad died next morning, but his pal got through and is doing well.”
In Memory of the late Earl of Ava
At Elands Laagte, for want of a mount, he gallantly acted as galloper to his Colonel all through the day on foot. He fell fighting at Ladysmith.
Of fair Athene, stands in carven stone
The man who brought the news from Marathon,
And died in act of bringing; for his will
O'ertaxed the heart that would its speed fulfil,
And broke it as he shouted “We have won!”
Our Britain boasts her battle-carrier son—
Ah! would to God his heart were beating still.
Who, light-foot as the deer of Clandeboye,
Ran without horse that dreadful battle morn;
Through storm of bullets urged his topmost speed,
That so his Colonel's word might well be borne,
And Briton's heart might feel the conqueror's joy.
The Day of Intercession
A VILLAGE HYMN
When nations rage with fire and sword,
By Whose decree the scourge of war
Fulfils a more than mortal word,
Let battle-pride and warrior-lust
Henceforth lie silent in the dust.
Thou dost the far-off future plan
When right shall triumph over might,
And brotherhood be known to man;
Lord, in this dreadful battle-hour,
Reveal Thy face and come with power.
To chastened eyes in mercy show
Where true imperial treasures lie;
Cast down the lofty, raise the low;
And out of pain, by loss subdued,
Lead forth a faithful multitude.
Be with the fallen, foe or friend;
Lord God of Hosts, if, by Thy will
We stand victorious at the end,
Give us Thy help divine to be
More just, more merciful for Thee.
The City Imperial Volunteers at St. Paul's
Our music echoed from the walls;
It filled the dome with sound and light,
It shook the cross upon St. Paul's.
Was stirred and quick for life and birth,
The Duke rose up within his tomb
And came again with power to earth.
On Albuera's fateful day,
At Badajoz when drenched in blood
Our thousands cast their lives away.
The right of all men to be free—
The God who armed my soul for fight,
Shall lead us still to victory.”
Came over fields made waste by war,
A grand Te Deum seemed to swim
Up-borne on wings of praise from far.
Safe-gathered to a house of prayer,
I saw the soldier chieftains own
The God of Battle's love and care.
The scars of fight were on their brow,
A soldier's oath—the Sacrament—
Was never sworn with fuller vow.
War-weary, grim with battle stain,
They thanked their God for all His grace,
And sang the grand Te Deum strain.
Had called the Iron Duke from rest;
No marvel that the great St. Paul's
Was filled with melody he blest.
Lord God, our sons, where'er they be,
Shall feel Thy presence is their might,
And, conquerors, shall remember Thee.
Yesterday (Sunday), Jan. 7th, a solemn thanksgiving service to Almighty God for His blessing upon our arms, was held in the Anglican Church. The building was crowded, chiefly by soldiers. The congregation also included General Sir George White, General Sir Archibald Hunter, Colonel Ian Hamilton, and other Staff officers.
At the conclusion of the sermon by Archdeacon Barker, General White and his Staff, at the invitation of the Archdeacon, proceeded to the altar rails, and there stood whilst a Te Deum was sung. It was a most impressive spectacle, and it came to a thrilling conclusion by the singing by the congregation of “God Save the Queen.”
Mistaken Kindness
Advantage of poor Tommy's absent mind,
Blow him up with pies, at parting, till his belt begins to break,
Fill him full of parting-liquor till he's blind.
To do the solemn thing he's got to do,
To pound away at Kruger and the Boers for you and me,
And to give his life for Queen and country too.
Just to fool away in drinking ere he goes;
Keep his pay! and give him baccy for a pipe upon the way!
And send him brave but sober on his foes.
As we see Reservists rolling down the street,
Please remember in our kindness we were cruel all the same
When we stood the absent-minded beggar treat.
[Extract from the letter of the Bishop of Chester in the Chester Courant, January 3, 1900:
“Sir,—May I be allowed to express what I know to be the strong and widely felt regret that, through a well-meant but most cruel kindness, our Reservists are being tempted at the solemn and touching hour of farewell to become the victims of drink? We all honour the Reservists for their splendid patriotism. We are all resolved, not only to look after their wives and families during their absence, but to provide them with wholesome comforts for their start and journey. Our Mayor is giving us the lead, but the scenes of excess due to illjudged hospitality which have been heard of in other cities and which are, I fear, not unknown in Chester, shock, and ought to shock, the public conscience. It is a most unhallowed and ill-omened beginning of what is in itself a noble enterprise. The responsibility lies at the door, not of the military authorities, who detest the whole thing, but partly at least at the doors of mistaken friends and admirers. In the earnest hope that sympathy and admiration may take a more manly and Godly shape, and that the Reservists themselves may shew that they have moral as well as physical courage, I have the honour to remain, your obedient servant,
“F. J. Cestr. “The Palace, Chester, January 2, 1900.”N.B.—By the Service regulations the Reservists are allowed to withdraw the balance of their reserve-pay, which usually amounts to about & £3, at the moment of mobilisation and departure. This is questionable wisdom.]
To the High Court of Parliament
At this time under Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen Assembled
You who remember whence our fathers sprung,
In the hushed Parliament will ye not arise now,
Shame with your words sincere the double tongue
Hangs in the balance, to a grain of dust,
Whether it win the mocking of the nations
Or prove victorious, merciful and just.
Lovers of peace but wielders of the sword—
We, with the hope of larger peace to-morrow,
Keep for all children of the flag our word.
Dearer than gold or diamond's dazzling fee,
This is our Charter—Faith with all who die for us,
This is our gold—the love of liberty.
Let those who fear, misdoubting of the end,
Know that the nation, one and undivided,
Claims the true heart that quails not now, for friend.
Somewhere, behind our wondrous battle-swarm,
God with His Will to usward everlastingly
Hides His deep purpose, and we trust His arm.
A Cry from Cape Town to Westminster
And clamour of debate—
There on the veldt a trooper lies,
Beyond all noise and hate.
One light before him shone:
His country's claim, his Queen's applause—
He left the task half done.
The soul of England turns
To where, beneath a nobler star,
Her flag of honour burns.
To Britain's Council Hall
The hundreds captive, hundreds slain,
Cry “Help us! one and all!”
Of faction—white and black—
The Great Colonial Empire came
To drive the invader back?
“Cease, brothers, praise or blame,
Lest freedom from her throne be hurled,
And Peace be but a name!”
The Bugler's Wish
For the bugle they lost in Tugela's wave
The day you fell on Colenso plain?”
And the bugler-laddie he answered brave,
“Give?—give me leave, in the Queen's employ,
To go to the Front with my bugle again!”
When the Royal party were going through the wards at Netley Hospital one of the Princesses asked the little bugler Dunne, who was the first to fall wounded in the Colenso fight, and whose bugle was thrown into the Tugela as he was being carried in to the hospital tent, what mark of favour he would wish the Queen to bestow on him, and he answered cheerily, “Leave to go to the Front again!”
To the Hero of Kimberley
Thrice has filled and has failed the moon,
But you it is who have kept hearts beating
Brave in the leaguer, at night and noon:
Sprung from Lincolnshire, nursed in Devonshire,
Yours is a name that shall not fade soon.
A hundred days with their hundred ills,
You welded the white to his black-faced brother,
You cheered their spirit, confirmed their wills,
Slept by snatches and kept your watches, and
Saved the Town of the Diamond Hills.
Kimberley riflemen, men of the rose
First to flame from your gate on the foes;
Heroes, a crowd of them, Britain is proud of them,
Yea, as she thanks you, she thinks upon those.
The Loyal Lancastrians, upon whom, with the Kimberley Rifles, the brunt of the siege fell, wear as a badge the Red Rose of the House of Lancaster.
Major Scott-Turner, who was killed as he led one of the sorties during the siege of Kimberley, will ever be remembered as one of the heroes of the beleaguered town.
Pat O'Leary's Grave
On march, in camp, so blithe and cheery,
The merriest heart e'er pierced by ball,
But laughterless lay Pat O'Leary.
We felt the blankness of to-morrow,
The sword of broken brotherhood
Pierced every heart with pain and sorrow.
There in his shallow grave we laid him,
And vows of vengeance fiercely vowed,
Vows—ah, how powerless to aid him!
No cloudy censer o'er him swinging;
And minds just cooling from a fight
Forgot all solemn words for singing.
And calm and peace its saying brought us,
As leaning on our rifles there
We prayed the words our mothers taught us:
The march is hard—the camp more dreary,
But somewhere, cheerly, up the hill
He'll lead us homeward, Pat O'Leary.
Note.—A soldier writing home says: “We helped to bury the poor fellow, who was the life and soul of us; but the Major had not got a prayer-book, and we could none of us remember the right collects, and so we just stood round the grave, and all together said ‘Our Father.’”
Love, the Conqueror
A hundred battles in his eyes,
He listened to a piteous case,
He had compassion on the cries.
Lay hurt to death by shot and shell,
And love far over land had flown
To look one look and say farewell.
“Love is more strong than fire or sword.”
He bade her pass—that gallant foe—
And sent her to her dying lord.
Swift challenge, swifter answer came,
Safe on her way the brave wife went
And took for escort Joubert's name.
To gaze upon that gentle form,
Grim holders they of trench and mound,
A woman's heart alone could storm.
Down streets ploughed deep by hurtling shell;
She found him near to death, forlorn
Of hope, for whom she dared so well.
To think how nobly love had striven,
And three times three our British cheers
For gallant Joubert went to Heaven.
Note.—A message dated Ladysmith, Feb. 17th.—“Much regret is felt for the death of Major Dufton, an able and popular officer of the Light Horse, who was severely wounded during one of the recent fights, and had his arm amputated. His wife, on hearing by heliograph of his condition, asked for and obtained permission from General Joubert, through General White, to pass through the Boer lines that she might nurse her dying husband.”
Saturday Night and Sunday Morn
A Contrast, February 24-25
SATURDAY NIGHT
And silence in the vale;
I hear the herdman shut the barn
And hang the milking-pail.
The great stars shine above,
And over Wythop's western bars
God lights the lamp of love.
The dale is dispossest,
And all who till and all who toil
Turn gratefully to rest.
Foe stands with foe at bay,
And loud with war that cannot cease
Grim rolls the earth to day.
SUNDAY MORNING
To join their angel throng,
Through dusky boughs to dewy lawn
The thrush begins his song.
Their Sabbath; up the fells,
Across the lake, by farm and fold,
I hear the Crosthwaite bells.
Floats up and fills the air,
Hands worn with labour now have time
To clasp and close in prayer.
Stern Cronje and his braves
In Sabbath hope are digging deep
The refuge of their graves.
The Queen at Netley
As there they stood in hospital array,
The pain of sword and bullet passed away
While on from ward to ward Victoria went;
And here she thanked them for their brave intent,
There for some tender question would she stay;
Here speak with sorrow of the battle day,
There smile such smile as more than praises meant.
The heat of onset gladly, and the cold
Of loss and failure, love is ever green
To crown your royal head with more than gold;
When all the thrones are shaken yours is sure,
Seeming so much more mother than a Queen.
Note.—One of the Gordon Highlanders, writing of the Queen's visit to Netley to see the wounded, said, “It was the proudest moment of my life; the Queen spoke to us all; she seemed much more a mother than a Queen.”
To Colonel Baden-Powell
Mafeking
How shall we tender
Thanks, and how render
Homage sincere!
You, in sore plight for us,
You, who made fight for us,
You, who kept bright for us
All we hold dear!
Faced all assailing,
With wits unfailing,
Met lure with lure.
Courage unquenchable,
Purpose unwrenchable,
With mound and trench able
Still to endure.
Tireless watch keeping,
You, the unsleeping,
Woke while we slept.
Cheered the uncheery ones,
Healed the wound-weary ones,
Helped the heart-dreary ones,
Safe the town kept.
Frowned, but resourceful,
Splendidly forceful,
You stood at bay.
Full—you made fight of it,
Starved—you made light of it,
Unsuccoured, spite of it,
Laughed Death away.
Tho' their guns thundered,
While a world wondered,
Stuck to your plan.
Now from your prison free,
Lead forth to liberty,
And let the nation see
Her bravest man.
To Kronje on Majuba Day
That gave you deathless glory on the hill,
Whose crown of honour and dishonour still
Is as a crown of sorrow and dismay
For all who strive for peace; now held at bay,
At last must Britain bend you to her will,
And all your warrior wit and soldier skill,
Your hate, your pride, must silent pass away.
The trench, the mound, that in your sore distress
Gave shelter to your fire-encircled band.
Memorials of your stubborn-hearted hand,
Long shall they tell your grim resourcefulness
And praise the laager-king of Koodoosrand.
The Relief of Ladysmith
TO GENERAL BULLER
Now praised be the powers!
Here's to you, Buller, my heart and my hand!
Bells rouse the people,
And flags from each steeple
Flutter to utter the joy of the land.
With courage unfailing,
Doggedly British, you still dared the deed;
Knowing what faced you,
You knew how we placed you,
Valiant and gallant to help at our need.
Shall flow; for each mountain
Flame-girt and steel-girt in anger arose,
Ridge to ridge yielding
More desperate shielding,
All the ground—trench and mound—packed with the foes.
For sisters, for brothers,
You fought incessantly twelve fighting days,
But that you played the game
True to our ancient name,
Buller! ne'er fuller was Britain of praise.
Fly flags from all towers!
Half-mast were better! we think of the dead:
They who at Freedom's gate
Thundered and met their fate,
We own them, we crown them; the heroes you led.
To General Sir George White
White, with your twenty thousand cooped up close,
Shut in by mountains belching fire—by foes
Outflanked, outnumbered, while the four moons grew
And waned with pitiless look of death, you knew
How thrice to the height of Heaven our good hope rose,
How thrice it fell—with sore increase of woes,
While famine more than shell-fire claimed its due.
By fireless hearths you kept our hearts aflame,
And tangled in that net by Boerish wiles,
Held your beleaguered ring of fourteen miles
Inviolate; yea, in Death's own dwelling-place
Nursed Life, till Life thro' Death victorious came.
In the Burial-Ground at Lady-smith
There's a little shady slope by Wagon Hill,
Where the earth is all new-thrown
And the air is very still.
Thro' the cypress shade and o'er the fresh-dug ground,
And above six hundred graves
I can hear a solemn sound.
Who, after sorrow, see an end of pain;
“We have given,” they cry, “our blood,
Let our gifts be not in vain!”
Retrospect
Fold hands, and turn a little while to sleep!
Forget? Nay friends, the wound is far too deep,
Seeing in peasant home and hall of peer
Sorrow with pride sits silent, and our cheer
Makes counterfeit of gladness—while we keep
The feast in weeds of woe, and some eyes weep,
And some hearts break because there is not tear.
Preached peace upon far mountains—how in might
The greater land's great courage, like a flame,
Rose up, and put all littleness to flight;
And how the grey old mother's children came
To pour their blood for liberty and right.
Ballads of the War | ||