Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain,
Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain!
Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast,
Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest!
Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river
Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever,
And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells
Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells.
Old Year—
Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power