And all the gloom that hung on Afric’s coast
Lost in the glory of Ulundi’s fame.
Now are our battered arms with laurels crowned;
Our stern defences turned to swift pursuit;
Our laagered outposts into merry camps.
Now may the mounted staff in bright array—
Where lurks no more the dangerous ambuscade—
Pursue the track of frightened fugitives,
Cantering as gaily, as on Rotten Row
With amorous glance when Phryne tempts pursuit.