IV.
Death—for their spies were among us, their marksman
were told of our best,
So that the brute bullet broke through the brain that
could think for the rest;
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would
rain at our feet—
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled
us round;
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth
of a street,
Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace—
and death in the ground!
V.
Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! and
creep through the hole,
Keep the revolver in hand! You can hear him—the
murderous mole.
Quiet! ah! quiet—wait till the point of the pickaxe
be through!
Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again
than before—
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is
no more;
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England
blew.
VI.
Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day, Soon as the blast of that underground thunder-clap echoed away, Dark through the smoke and the sulphur, like so many fiends in their hell— Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell— Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemies fell.
VII.
What have they done? where is it? Out yonder.
Guard the Redan!
Storm at the Water-gate, storm at the Bailey-gate!
storm, and it ran
Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every
side
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drowned by
the tide—
So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who
shall escape?
Kill or be killed, live or die, they shall know we are
soldiers and men.
VIII.
Ready! take aim at their leaders—their masses are
gapped with our grape—
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave
flinging forward again,
Flying and foiled at the last by the handful they could
not subdue;
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England
blew.