There were lots of lies and tattle
In dispatches and on wire,
But 'twas Mac who saved the battle
When the word came to retire.
"I'll no do it"--he cried, ready
For what peril lay in store,
With his ranks like steel and steady--
"And I'll see them hanged before!
O, we maun jist fight!" And bolder
Slewed his front the Dervish way,
Smart with shoulder knit to shoulder,
White and black that bloody day.
Then a hell of fire, and sputtered
Iron blast and leaden hail,
While the Maxims stormed and stuttered
And our rifles did not fail.
For the destiny of nations
With an agony intense,
And our Empire's own foundations
Hung a minute in suspense.
But old Mac was cool as ever,
And his words like leaping flame
Flashed in confident endeavour
To avert that evil shame.
Swung his lines on hinges, rolling
Right and left like very doom,
Till our fate nigh past controlling
Brake in glory out of gloom.
While upon those awful stages
Throbbed a world's great piston beat,
And the moments seemed as ages
Rung from death and red defeat.
Ah, we lived, indeed, and no man
Recked of wound or any ill,
As we grimly faced the foeman--
If we died, to conquer still.
And it felt as though the burden
Of all England gave us might,
Laid on each, who asked no guerdon
But against those odds to fight.
Let the lucky get high stations
And the honour which he won,
Mac desires no decorations
But the gallant service done.
For the rankers bear the losses
And the brunt of every toil,
While they earn for others "crosses"
And the splendour and the spoil.