I stood on the glacis at Pieters’
And read there the word “Inniskilling,”
Written red in the blood of soldiers as brave
As e’er took Her Majesty’s shilling.
I stood ’midst the ghosts of our children,
Whose corpses beneath me were lying;
And it seemed that I heard o’er the wind of the velt
Their voices come solemnly sighing.
They were taught from boyhood, these heroes,
To fear neither rifle nor cannon;
They were taught first by Perry M‘Clintock,
Bob Ellis and fiery Buchanan.
They rushed like the stream from the mountain,
Or the wind o’er the Lakes of Fermanagh,
And they fell like the leaves in the cold autumn blast,
Or the drops pouring over the fountain.
Ah! Mother of God! but I see them
Stagger. Thackeray! Davidson! more!
And who is the next, thrusting on thro’ the smoke?
It is he! ’Tis ma bouchal asthore!
His eye has the look of the eagle,
His shout tops the musketry’s roar,
Ah! now he’ll be in with the bay’net:
No, he falls!—He is shot by a Boer.
We think of you children of Ulster,
All unknown, yet so splendidly brave;
And although the remains of our dear ones
Lie senseless and cold in the grave,
Their mem’ries live now and for ever,
Though their bones turn to dust ’neath the sod;
For the spirit and soul of the soldier
Rise like sweet-smelling incense to God.
As I glanced over kopje and stone
On the scene of this terrible drama,
Past my eyes, other scenes, from the distant black North,
Rolled on like a vast panorama.
Such sights ere he gasped his last breath
Perhaps appeared to the brave Fusilier,
As at Thackeray’s word he rushed forward to death
With a bound and a heart-stirring cheer!
The dark clouds hang over a valley,
The brown water rushes down foaming,
The light from the cabin-door shines like a spark
On the hill in the mists of the gloaming.
The heather waves sweet in the wind
That sweeps o’er the steep slopes of Sâwel;
The crooked-beaked eagle swoops down on the hind,
Whilst the cock-grouse lies low for a marvel.
For thus, as we come to the entrance
Of that lane that knows of no turning,
Whether bullets are hissing, or rotten decks breaking,
Or fever our wasted frame burning,
The sights and the sounds of the home that we love
O’er our minds come back hurriedly streaming,
And we see in our dreams our long lost ones above,
As Azraël’s death-blade is gleaming.
* * * *
I stood ’midst the ghosts of our children,
Whose corpses beneath me were lying;
And it seemed that I heard o’er the wind of the velt
Their voices come solemnly sighing.
Petersburg, October, 1901.