Brood of the lion-cub litter, your birthmark's your passport to-day.
Hard is the ride, and the fight ere they break for their coverts and scatter:
Spring to the bugle's quick challenge, then, saddle and mount, and away!
"Find them and fight them and stand!" down the line ran the captain's curt orders—
Hot as the mission's red embers, they burned to the hearts of the men.
Swift o'er the track's desolation, tho' peril each foot of it borders,
On thro' the assegais' hurtling and make for the jungle-king's den!
There, where the waggons are creaking, with ill-gotten booty encumbered,
Rush the Zareba! It weakens—it breaks! but to close as the sand
Follows the swirl of the tide-beat—a handful by thousands outnumbered!—