Chieftain, O Chieftain, lament for the year!
Of distress and disaster a history drear:
For Cabul with its slain rises red on my sight;
And grim Isandula, that massacre fight.
They fought and they perished by field and by flood;
But their victories rest bootless, and blood calls for blood.
Weep, Albion, thy losses, thy glory grown pale!
Weep, though gagged correspondents can’t tell the whole tale!
Chief—
Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer!