(From the Christmas number of the _Bombshell_, published in Ladysmith
during the siege.)
There is a famous hill looks down,
Five miles away, on Ladysmith town,
With a long flat ridge that meets the sky
Almost a thousand feet on high.
And on the ridge there is mounted one
Long-range, terrible six-inch gun.
And down in the street a bugle is blown,
When the cloud of smoke on the sky is thrown,
For it's sixty seconds before the roar
Reverberates o'er, and a second more
Till the shell comes down with a whiz and stun
From that long-range, terrible six-inch gun.
And men and women walk up and down
The long, hot streets of Ladysmith town,
And the housewives walk in the usual round,
And the children play till the warning sound--
Then into their holes they scurry and run
From the whistling shell of the six-inch gun.
For the shells they weigh a hundred pound,
Bursting wherever they strike the ground,
While the strong concussion shakes the air
And shatters the window-panes everywhere.
And we may laugh, but there's little of fun
In the bursting shell from a six-inch gun.
Oh! 'twas whistle and jest with the carbineers gay
As they cleaned their steeds at break of day,
But like a thunderclap there fell
In the midst of the horses and men a shell,
And the sight we saw was a fearful one
After that shell from the six-inch gun.
Though the foe may beset us on every side,
We'll furnish some cheer in this Christmastide;
We will laugh and be gay, but a tear will be shed
And a thought be given to the gallant dead,
Cut off in the midst of their life and fun
By the long-range, terrible six-inch gun.