We marked each ring-girt head,
We felt the hard earth tremble
Under their heavy tread,--
The martial tread of thousands
In full array of war--
Each sinewy frame well trained to wield
Broad assegai and tufted shield,
Washed upon many a hard-fought field
In vanquished foeman’s gore.
Yes, on they come in thousands--
One hundred strong we stand,
Against the very pick and flower
Of warrior Zululand:
And how may we resist them,
Or hope to hold our own,
Flushed as they be with victory--
The greatest e’er they’ve known?
They pressed in silence forward
At a swift but steady run,
Red glowed their blades in the golden beams
Of the declining sun;
With gliding undulation,
On, on their masses came--
A mighty crash--a lightning flash--
Streamed the death-dealing flame.
Still the black wave rolled onward--
Again the word rang out,
With the sharp volley’s crackling voice
Arose a deafening shout:
Blent with the rush of thousands
Over the rumbling ground,
The battle-cry pealed to the sky,
Starting the echoes round.
’Tis long since that wild slogan
Rallied these bands to war,
The dreaded hosts of Zululand
Now in the field once more;
Oft have the neighbouring tribesmen,
At the blood-curdling tone,
Awoke in the calm still hours of night,
To flee by their blazing kraals’ red light,
To forest thickets lone.
’Neath far Quathlamba’s ridges
Cut clear against the sky,
Where now, upon those grassy slopes,
Snug homesteads nestling lie;
As sweeping down resistless,
A black o’erwhelming flood,
The ruthless hordes fell on their prey,
And broad their dark destroying way
Was long mapped out, for many a day,
By ruins soaked in blood.
Their forward van all shaken,
They wavered--then fell back--
Bestrewn with dark grim corpses
Was all the gory track:
They turned to seek for cover,
They’d seen what we could do,
And overhead, with angry whiz,
Like hail their bullets flew.
And by their hosts surrounded,
Nigh forty men to one,
We vainly scanned the darkling waste
Ere twilight should be done;
As waif on the wide ocean,
Looks for the rescuing sail,
When dim shades sweep the surging deep,
And louder roars the gale.
Behind the western ridges
The sun’s red lamp sank down,
The twilight shadows seemed to cast
O’er all a threatening frown;
We gazed with mingled feelings
On the last-fading beam,
Should we, too, lie ’neath the cold grey sky,
Stark in the dawning gleam?
We looked at one another,
Then at the purpling west,
Then came the thought of our noble trust,
Filling each soldier breast;
And there, that trust defending,
We’d perish as we stood--
Telling of death seemed the night-wind’s breath,
Heavy and dank with blood.
Again the thrilling war-cry
In wild shrill notes rang out,
Again th’ infuriate mass bore down
Upon our frail redoubt;
They poured their swarming numbers
Over the barricade--
But one short stand, our gallant band
That first mad onslaught stayed.
Yet fiercer still and bolder
They rushed into the fight--
When to the smoke-beclouded sky
Shone a dull reddening light:
With a chill of consternation
We marked the lurid glare,
Knowing that then our wounded men
Were helpless lying there.
Then from the glowing furnace
We brought them one by one,
But the foe closed up too quickly,
Ere half our work was done;
We faced the yelling masses,
We braved the crackling fire,
Till through the smoke the fierce flame broke,
Forcing us to retire.
The cruel demons entered,
All eager for their prey,
The helpless sick and wounded
Were butchered as they lay;
As the huge flames roared upward
With red and hungry light,
In the fierce glare that met us there--
Stood all revealed the fight.
Widened the glowing circle
Crowded with clamouring bands,
All weirdly shone the flashing blades
Brandished by grisly hands;
Again, again upon us,
Poured the dark howling flood,
Quivered the ground beneath their bound,
Red with our comrades’ blood.
We thought of these comrades butchered
As they unresisting lay;
We ceased to give a passing care
To the issue of the fray;
We only longed for vengeance
On all the fiendish crew,
To let them feel our British steel,
To strike both oft and true.
The flaming pile sank inwards
With a roar like thunder’s tone;
Arose a sickening stench of blood
And many a gurgling moan;
Still the terrific war-cry
Blent with our furious shout,
Harder they pressed upon us--
Quicker we drove them out--
Hurling them back in the gory track,
Upon the clamouring rout.
And eyes with lust of carnage,
Like coals through the darkness gleamed,
And bayonet crashed with stabbing spear,
Thick the red torrent streamed:
Drowning the roar of battle--
Drowning the deafening clang--
Each demon yell, like a blast of hell,
Fiercer and higher rang.
Still the bright volley’s flashing
Showed the wild frenzied crowd,
Their shields and spear-hafts clashing--
Their war shouts pealing loud--
And myriad eyeballs glowing,
Like starlit ocean tossed--
And blood, like water, flowing,
When splintering weapons crossed.
Our bayonets blunt and twisted,
All dripping black with gore;
And many an open bleeding gash
Its own grim witness bore;
Our brains all faint and dizzy,
Our throats all parched with thirst,
At every shot our guns grew hot
As though about to burst.
Again, again, we met them
Through the long fearful night;
We fought as ne’er we fought before
And ne’er again may fight,
To ’venge our slaughtered comrades,
To guard our solemn trust,
And to reclaim our country’s name
Trampled in savage dust.
We stood upon our rampart,
As paled the morning star,
We saw the baffled foe retreat
Over the hills afar;
The long night’s deadly struggle
Seemed like a troubled dream--
Our peril passed, new hope at last
Came with the dawning gleam.
Piled high against our breastwork,
And scattered o’er the plain,
Four hundred of their warrior strength
Lay stark amid the slain--
Lay where their fierce hot lifeblood
The greedy earth had wet--
Still terrible, in threatening scowl,
Each grim dead face was set.
Our strength and ammunition
Alike were well-nigh spent--
On an approaching dust-cloud
Our eager glance was bent,
There moving slow and rising,
Far in the hostile land,
Till, through the haze, our straining gaze
Descried an armèd band.
Is it the foe returning,
’Gainst us in greater strength?--
We watched the distant column
Deploying in its length:
Hurrah--the British scarlet
Gleams in the morning sun--
We’ll see once more old England’s shore,
Her thanks we’ve fairly won.
Yes, for old England’s honour
And for her perilled might,
We strove with vast and whelming odds,
From eve till morning light;
And thus with front unflinching,
One hundred strong we stood,
And held the post ’gainst a maddened host
Drunken with British blood.
And twelve from out our number
Their brave career had run,
Their final muster-roll had passed,
And their last duty done;
So carefully we laid them
Deep in the green earth’s breast,
An alien sod above them trod;--
Peace with their ashes rest!
Her sons, in gallant story,
Shall sound old England’s fame,
And by fresh deeds of glory
Shall keep alive her name;
And when, above her triumphs,
The golden curtains lift--
Be treasured long, in page and song,
The memory of RORKE’S DRIFT.
_Bertram Mitford._
[Illustration]
“_RORKE’S DRIFT._”
JANUARY 22, 1879.
On the wild river’s bank two horsemen appear,
They are bearers of tidings that fill them with fear;
“Haste, put us across, and prepare for the fight,
The Zulus are out in their uttermost might;
They rushed on our camp like a dark hungry flood,
And their spears are all red with our countrymen’s blood.”
“Hurrah, we will fight for Old England.”
We heard them, a moment our pulses stood still,
Then went we to work with a heart and a will--
Two stores to defend--with a hundred, all told,
And thirty sick mates. “Come, boys, let’s be bold;
Let’s fasten the waggons together with chain,
And build up our ramparts with sacks full of grain.”
“Hurrah, we will fight for Old England.”
What is that coming on like a herd of black game,
Round the hill to the south, with the speed of a flame,
With feathery plumes like wild manes flaunting high,
And a sound like a myriad wings in the sky?
The _Zulus_! for now in the sun’s glance appears
The quivering lightning-like sheen of their spears.
“Now, boys, let us fight for Old England.”
_They are on us!_ Six hundred at first, with wild cries--
The lust of the battle still red in their eyes--
The blood of our comrades still wet on each blade,
And see! there come thousands behind to their aid--
But, thanks to the heads that directed our hands,
All firm and unbroken our little camp stands.
“Hurrah, we will fight for Old England.”
It stands like a rock the Atlantic’s wild wave
Breaks over and harms not.--We took and we gave--
They leapt on our “walls” with stab, hiss, and yell--
They came on in thousands, dark legions from hell!
Our bayonets were ready, our rifles were _there_,
And their small tongues of flame spoke of death in the air!
“Hurrah, how we fought for Old England.”
They took half our fort--foot by foot--inch by inch--
They lighted the roof, and yet none would flinch;
We threw up another redoubt with the maize,
And fought by the light of the hospital blaze
When the darkness came down--and all through the night
Surrounded, we kept up the terrible fight.
“Hurrah, how we fought for Old England!”
Ah! who shall declare what brave deeds were done,
Ere the world woke again to the light of the sun?
For twelve long, long hours we stood at our posts,
And beat back, how often! the enemy’s hosts.
We had our revenge for the blood that was shed,
At dark “Isandhlwana”--_they paid for our dead_.
“Hurrah, how we fought for Old England.”
Day broke, and the devils had silently gone,
We counted their dead, more than twenty to one!
Our loss was Fifteen--so we set up a shout
That frightened the vultures slow sailing about.
* * * * *
In the heart thrill of nations will live your reward,
Oh! brave “Twenty-fourth,” oh! brave Bromhead and Chard--
“Hurrah, how you fought for Old England.”
_A. Brodrick._
PRETORIA, 1882.
[Illustration]
_BEFORE ULUNDI._
We had to retreat, entirely by Zulus surrounded--
We had to retreat, but we cut our way through as you know.
Bold Beresford lingered, while loudly the bugle was sounded,
And turned in his saddle to take a last look at the foe.
A trooper’s horse dropped; its rider lay stunned for a minute--
But quick as the lightning the storm-cloud in summer reveals,
A voice cried, “Come, quick! see the stirrup--now set your foot in it--
And jump up behind, for the devils are close to our heels.”
“No, here I’ll remain. Go on, and don’t mind me, your honour,
Ride on, save yourself, if I’m killed I shall never be missed.”
But the mare had to carry that day double burden upon her--
“Come up, or by heaven, I’ll give you the weight of my fist.”
Then away went the mare, and many a yell from pursuer
Rose high on the air while fast o’er the wild veld they fled,
No braver heart beat on that day, no braver or truer
Than his whose strong arm snatched a comrade from realms of the dead.
Ere sundown they rode into camp and quickly dismounted,
And then they shook hands and parted, “To arms!” was the call.
Of all the good deeds that were done, oh! shall not be counted
Bold Beresford’s ride with the Sergeant the bravest of all?
_A. Brodrick._
PRETORIA, 1882.
[Illustration]
_THE BARON’S ADVENTURE._
(A FACT.)
Voici une pétite chanson
Pour le Baron de Sanson
A story--a tale, what you call episode--
On the trials he meet
Wiz his cart (de visite)
On ze laissez-faire, what you call Idle-burg Road.
You know how he state
Dis country is great?
And most be duv-velop, c’est vrai, it is true--
Vel, listen my story--
I tell con amore,
Ze Baron he nearly vos duvvel op too.
Ze chemin vos von mud,
Ze rain vos ze vlood,--
He arrive by ze river, ze water vos “grand,”
His friend look to him
And say, “Can you swim?”
Zen jomp comme un poisson and sit on ze land.
Mais le Baron vos tumble,
He make one big jumble,
And mix vis ze buggy and turn razzer pale,
And ze friend, he that voss up
Say to me, “It’s von toss up
What side is ze Baron, ze head of ze tail?”
We make a big screamin’,
Zey fling a big reim in--
Zey catch ze brave Baron--comme ça--par la jambe--
Ze clothes vos departed,
He sigh, zen he started--
And after some cognac he say, “Vare I am?”
Ah! but he vos plucky,
He say he vos “lucky”--
He vos bruise on his back, and scratch on his knees--
Ze horses vare no vare!
Ze buggy turn ovare!
So he walk for five miles--in top boots and chemise?
_A. Brodrick._
PRETORIA, 1882.
[Illustration]
_SOUTH AFRICAN COURTSHIP._
The girl I love was bred and born
Close to the “winding” neck of Horn,[20]
’Neath Cashan’s purple splendour.
She is so fair, she is so good,
That, in her simple womanhood,
You cannot mar or mend her.
You cannot mar her or improve--
Her voice is like the wild wood dove
Cooing by river branches,
Her neck (unlike the neck of Horn)
Is white as Alpine snow down-borne
By summer avalanches.
She is as graceful as the beech--
Her lips are ripe as blooming peach,
Or like small twin tomatoes;
Her hair is black, her earrings jet,
Nature and art together met--
For she to each a part owes.
Her teeth are white as sea-cow’s tusk,
And gleam upon you in the dusk--
Her eyes blue as seringa;
Her foot is shapely, and her hand,
And on her finger shines a band
Of gold--her little finger!
I saw her standing on a chair
In a dark orange grove--aware,
I fancy, of my presence;
For though she neither looked nor turned,
Her cheek with more than sunset burned,
As if she felt Love’s essence.
She raised herself upon her toes--
Regardless of her boots and hose
(The day was one of March’s),
She picked the fruit above her head,
And softly as a Zephyr said,
“Mij oompie, bier is nartjes.”[21]
I took the fruit, I took her hand--
I squeezed them both--you understand?
I said, “Oh! let us wander
Beyond this darksome orange grove,
And talk of cattle--or of Love--
My gentle Afrikander.”[22]
I spoke to her in broken Dutch,
Or damaged English with a touch
Of “Afrikander” in it.
I said to her--what did I say?
I said “ah! ja,” I said “ah! nay,”
And said so every minute.
I said “ah! ja, ik dank _u_ veel,”[23]
I’d thrown away the “nartje” peel
And sucked the juices there-in;
I said “I love you,” fruitful theme,
In such a case (I do not dream)
A man becomes Man-darin.
She stood just then as once stood Ruth,
“Amid the alien corn”--in truth
’Twas at no latticed casement--
’Twas in her father’s “mealie” ground
I spoke--she started at the sound
In mealies and a_maze_ment.
Oh! wonder not such things are done
So quickly ’neath a tropic sun--
“There is no time to tarry”--
Love ripens faster than the pine,
The Lover says “Will you be mine?”
Next week they go and marry.
I told her of my cows and calves,
And how with Thomson I was “halves,”
And totted up the figures--
How waggons of my own, one, two,
Were earning much at Se-coo-coo-
Ni’s, fighting ’gainst the niggers.
I told her that I was an Earl
Disguised--she swallowed it, dear girl--
I said I would repay her,
If she would give her heart to me,
A man used to society,
A gentleman “Karreweijer.”[24]
She said she’d cows and calves as well,
And oxen too, which she could sell--
A “rustbank”[25] chair and poodle,
And breathing then a pensive sigh
She said, “some land too, by and by,
A fourth of father’s _boedel_.”[26]
We sought her Pa--he smoking sat,
Beside him dogs upon a mat;
He relished it, like butter--
He dropped his pipe and heaved a sigh,
Then took a “tot”--then winked his eye
And said, “Neef jij kan vat haar.”[27]
So when I wed her, I shall “trek,”
And go and live near Horn’s long neck--
’Neath Cashan’s regal splendour;
Around her neck I’ll place my arm,
I’ll get a quarter of the farm--
And throughout life defend her!
_A. Brodrick._
PRETORIA, 1882.
[Illustration]
_THE BETTER LAND._
AFTER SHEMANS.
I hear thee speak of a better land,
Where farms are picked up, and the veld is grand;
Where game is plenty, and Natives weak,
And will work without giving us (gratis) cheek.
Father, oh! where is that home for the Boer?
Shall we not seek it and slave no more?
We will, we will, my child!
Is it far away where the placid breast
Of N’Gami shines in “the purple west?”
Is it where Hermanus two years ago,
Found elephant, sea-cow, and buffalo?
Is it wooded or plain, inclined for flats?
Is it far, far north by old Selekats?
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it past the Blueberg, and through the fly,
Where the men of Zoutpansberg used to die?
Is it north of Mapog or Sekookoon,
Where Mauch beheld Mrs. Sheba’s “_Roon_?”
Near Origstadt or St. Lucia’s Bay,
Where heaps of the bones of our fathers lay?
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it on Zambesi, that mooi stream,
Where the veld’s so thick that the cows’ milk’s cream,
Where the sun’s so hot that all day we sleep--
Where Law and Government will be cheap?
Is it through the sand?--on the desert’s hem?
Oom Piet--oh! is it Gee-roo-salem?
Not there, not there, my child!
I have not seen it, my gentle neef,
It belongs to no regular King or Chief;
But far to the west, and near the sea,
Where the Damaras’ dwell (spelt with capital “D.”)
There is the land of our Hope--and Doom,
Far beyond Secheel, and beyond Sekoom.
It is there, it is THERE, my child!
_A. Brodrick._
PRETORIA, TRANSVAAL, 1879.
[Illustration]
“_DOLLY._”
A REMEMBRANCE.
Hers was the voice that moved us when we woke,
In childish prattle, or in broken song,
Hers was the smile, that like a sunbeam broke
Through all our clouds, and shone all cares among.
And now, like dearest things of priceless cost,
We only feel her value, when she’s lost.
So small, so young, and yet she made a place
We ne’er can fill, which never can be filled;
Where e’er we turn, we still can see her face,
And in the silent night our hearts are thrilled
By her small voice, as if what was our own
Feared yet to leave us, and to be alone.
We only understand our bitter loss,
But not the little life so filled with pain,
We cannot understand the heavy cross
Borne by our darling flower without a stain:
We only know a grace has from us passed,
And a dark cloud upon our lives is cast.
Her little playmates stood with awe and love
Around her grave, and sang the while she slept;
But when the bright blue sky was hidden above,
They stood in silence, and in silence wept;
They knew her little feet would never tread
Again this earth, which covered her fair head.
Farewell, dear child! We still shall touch thy hand,
We still shall see thy face, and hear thy tongue.
Where art thou? In the far-off heavenly land,
With Christ’s protecting love around thee thrown?
Where art thou? Shall we meet thee ne’er to part,
And know thee as of old--Light of our heart?
_A. Brodrick._
PRETORIA, _November 17, 1874_.
_GOING HOME._
FROM THE TRANSVAAL TO ENGLAND.
Why are we going? Joking apart--
To wake our soul, and lift our heart,
To wear the crust from the mildewed brain,
And stand in the ranks of the world again.
To see, hear, feel, each beauteous thing;
That civilisation alone can bring;
To walk ’neath roofs that knew the flow
Of music, centuries ago;
To stand in temples where have trod,
For ages, worshippers of God;
To stand by marts where Argosies
At anchor lie, from distant seas,
Ships that say: “all _’neath_ the sun
By ties of nature are made one;”
Ships that tell with their white wings furled
How throbs _with one great pulse the world_!
Why are we going? To see, though men,
The Home where we lived as boys, again;
To see _her_ face in its sunset glow,
That lighted the Home of our _Long ago_,
To feel our rough rind fall away,
And our hearts receive the light of day.
Let us drop the pen, and the lightsome word,
And think of that dear old Home. How stirred
Are memories as we sit and sigh,
And the years on lightning feet flit by,
And the patient Love, the watchful care,
Rise out of the distant landscape fair,
And a word of deepest love will rise
For her, who now longs with tear-filled eyes
To welcome the way-worn wand’rer _home_,
Just as of old her boy will come!
No change in the love, that bore all ills,
As eternal as God’s own grassy hills.
_A. Brodrick._
PRETORIA, 1879.
[Illustration]
_THE OXFORD BIBLE._
ON WORN-OUT SAILS BEING USED AS MATERIAL FOR THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER ON
WHICH BIBLES ARE PRINTED.
The breezes free of the great white sea
Have filled us with strength and life;
And the ocean gales have driven our sails
In the midst of the billows’ strife.
To the South from North have we oft gone forth
To sail o’er the bright sunny seas;
We’ve been kissed by an air most pure and fair,
And been lulled by the evening breeze.
Full many a time, in a tropic clime,
We’ve been wooed by the sun’s hot breath,
And mid frozen hail we have felt the flail
Of the Lord of the Ice and Death.
Under stormy skies, amid Nature’s cries,
We have struggled and fought for life,
And then wearied and worn with work well borne,
We have finished our early strife.
Our labours had ceased, and we were released
From the sun and the winds and the gales,
Our voyages passed, we sank down at last
As old, tattered, and worn-out sails.
But we now rise again with glad refrain,
We rise in a book of peace,
Amid hymn and psalm, and words of balm,
And a message which ne’er shall cease.
And risen we find our sea is the mind,
Our voyage is fair and free;
Through brain and through soul, we pass to the goal
Of God and Eternity.
_Marie._
[Illustration]
_THE LAST MISSION OF THE SAILS._
The sails of the ships are lying,
White on the floor of the mill,
Scarr’d with the wounds of the weather,
But sweet with the sea scent still.
Fresh from the spray of the sunshine,
And braving the tempest’s rage,
To the whirr and the hum of the wheels they come,
And the calm of the printed page.
Aloft from the spreading yard-arms,
They bent o’er the distant seas,
To the blast of the frozen Horn
Or sigh of the tropic breeze.
A message of might is tokened
On the cloths of each tattered sail,
For they bear the brand of the Storm King’s hand
In the strain of the sea and gale.
In a fairer form, and purer,
They come from the mill at last,
Transformed, as man hereafter,
When the wondrous change is past.
Between the boards of the Bible
The sails of the ships shall rest,
While they speed again o’er the troubled main
With the Master’s Word impressed.
_Adamastor._
[Illustration]
_THE WORN-OUT SAILS._
Take down the sails, the worn and ragged sails,
Let them no longer flutter in the breeze,
And bear the gallant vessels to and fro
Over the seas, the blue and smiling seas.
They are so old, and worn, and tattered now,
Their work is done--shall they be cast away
As worthless rubbish, only fit to lie
And moulder in the dust-heaps, to decay?
No; put them to a greater, nobler use,
Give them a better purpose than before,
When the sun shone upon them white and new,
And when from shore to shore the ships they bore.
Wash all their dust, and stains, and spots away,
And fashion from them paper pure and fair,
And then when this thou hast completed, in
The leaves let God’s own blessed word appear.
Let the glad message of the Gospel shine
Upon the unsullied whiteness of each page,
The gentle words our blessèd Saviour spoke,
And the grand thoughts of prophets old and sage.
The worn-out sails, great service they have done,
We will not let them perish and decay,
This, their last work, the greatest and the best,
It shall preserve them in our land for aye.
The stately ships that sail the ocean wide,
Can England guard from foe and hostile band;
But God’s word in the people’s hearts, is still
The secret of the greatness of our land.
_E. L. B._ (_Alice_).
[Illustration]
_IN MEMORIAM._
Gordon is dead: and lo! the unconscious wire
Carries the mournful message on its way,
Girdling the globe with news of direst truth,
From Egypt’s minarets to broad Cathay.
The Christian soldier, and the Christian man,
Sleeps by the side of Nile’s historic wave,
Rescued by Death, his freedom is secured,
And now he wears the garments of the brave.
In vain the stubborn fight of Abu Klea;
In vain Metammeh’s more than brilliant charge;
Gordon is dead; England is craped in black,
And funeral echoes pall the world at large.
’Twas treachery that struck the fatal blow;
Traitors within the walls of far Khartoum,
Laid the invincible for ever low,
And sealed their own irrevocable doom.
Vengeance is sometimes slow but always sure,
The might of England rushes to the fray,
Even now the Mahdi’s reign is almost o’er;
Vengeance is England’s, and she will repay.