Ballads of Brave Deeds By H. D. Rawnsley. With a Frontispiece and Preface by G. F. Watts |
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The Drummer Boy of the Malakand Pass |
 | Ballads of Brave Deeds |  |
The Drummer Boy of the Malakand Pass
The Battle of the Malakand Pass was fought on April 3rd, 1895. The first obstacle which lay in the path of the Southern Column of the Chitral Relief force was an exceptionally strong position; and was not carried till after five hours hard fighting. The enemy fought desperately and lost 500 men, while nearly 1000 were wounded. The British lost 70 killed and wounded.
“Of the enemy's bravery,” write the Captains Younghusband in their ‘Relief of Chitral,’ Chap. iv., p. 69, “it is impossible to speak too highly, and individual courage was conspicuous. One leader, carrying a large red and white banner, called on his men to charge the Scottish Borderers when they were halfway up the hill. The charge was made, but all his followers gradually fell till the leader alone was left. Nothing daunted, he held steadily on, now and again falling, heavily hit, but up and on again without a moment's delay, till at last he was shot dead, close to the line. More desperate courage than this is difficult to imagine.
“Again, one of the enemy's drummers, not content with taking his fair share of risks, persisted in mounting on to the roof of a hut, where he showed up clear and conspicuous against the sky line, and thence cheered on his comrades. Every now and again a bullet would find him out, and he would drop to dress his wounds, and then, again mounting, recommence beating his drum. At last a bullet got him through the heart, and he fell headlong a hundred yards down the cliff, and there lay stark dead, but with his drum round his neck, and his arms ready raised to strike it.”
Our hearts, these vases that throb and brim,
Made them of fair or of darkest earth,
Gave them love of their native land,
From the mountain crest to the far sea's brim,
Bade them be true to the home of their birth.
Of the deep vales cleft by the earthquake sword,
Of the dread ravines where the rock roars down,
You where the torrents fall and rise
As the frost forbids or the sun sends word,
Did ye not dare to die for your own?
And we faced the Hillmen fierce for the fight,
Climbed while the rifles cracked o'erhead.
It was April eve when our good flag flew
On the last grim ridge of the Malakand height,
And we counted the living and gazed on the dead.
Who, bearing his banner of white and rose,
Charged our “Borderers” there on the hill;
Fell shot-shattered, but up and ran
Alone with a shout in the teeth of his foes,
And died at our feet in his desperate will.
In front of the gate of their mountain land,
No braver heart did a bullet pierce thro'
Than his at the foot of the cliff who lay,
With drum round his neck, and with sticks in hand,
Still playing, stark dead, his loud tattoo.
Clear seen, jet black, in the deep blue sky;
Tho' the marksman's bullet went angrily past,
He would beat to the charge as his friends went by,
For love of the Prophet while life should last.
Dropped to the dressing of wounds that stung;
How back to his post and his task would he come
Till the death-shot struck; but the headlong fall
Sheer over the precipice, never unslung
The drum he was beating for Allah and home.
The brave boy drummer who drummed to the death,
The hero heart of the Pathan crew;
It was God gave him love of his mountain ground,
It was Love he would serve with his latest breath:
We shall hear his Drum at the Great Review.
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