ENGLAND'S IRONSIDES.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
They are not gone, the old Cromwellian breed,
As witness conquered tides,
And many a pasture sown with crimson seed—
Our English Ironsides;
And out on kopjes, where the bullets rain,
They serve their Captain, slaying or are slain.
The same grand spirit in the same grim stress
Arms them with stubborn mail;
They see the light of duty's loveliness
And over death prevail.
They never count the price or weigh the odds,
The work is theirs, the victory is God's.
They are not fled, the old Cromwellian stock,
Where stern the horseman rides,
Or stands the outpost like a lonely rock—
Our English Ironsides.
Through drift and donga, up the fire-girt crag
They bear the honour of the ancient flag.
What if they starve, or on red pillows lie
Beneath a burning sun?
It is enough to live their day, or die
Ere it has even begun;
They only ask what duty's voice would crave,
And march right on to glory or the grave.