OUR BOYS.
“Our boys came back from the army’s van;
Toilworn with travel each horse and man,—
Bronzed nigh to blackness each face and hand,—
But bright every eye of the youthful band.
They had sprung “to the front” at the war’s first call,
And a warrior’s welcome had greeted them all.
“First in the field!—’twas your father’s wont;
And the right to your place in the army’s front,
Through the whole campaign ye shall yield to none,
Rest horses awhile, boys, and then,—march on;
Elliot and Bailie your leaders shall be,
And your post the heights of the deep Bashee.”
. . . . . . . . . .
Loud through the camp the “Assembly” rings;
Quick to the saddle each horseman springs,—
And “Eastward ho!” is the warlike cry,
As “Headquarter” cheers give a warm “Good-bye!”
The camp is reached, the “Division” joined,
The “arms of the Service” all combined;
The “fellows” of “Number 6” are there,
Ready each peril and toil to share;
Second to none in the pluck they show,
And eager as any to face the foe.
There are black “allies,” but with leaders white,
To show them the way the “English” fight.
And now they chafe at the long delay;
The halt grows tedious from day to day.
Weary of seeing the wild war-dance
They long for the welcome word “Advance!”
The foe is escaping, and drives afar
His flocks and herds from the field of war.
The slow-footed order comes at last,
And the camp wakes up at the trumpet’s blast;
The column forms quick, as the bugles ring,
The skirmishers scatter on either wing
Where the war-song rises in savage pride,
And its echoes come back from the mountain side.
Few are the chances of open fight,
But enough to tell that the hearts are right,
And eager for battle with warriors bold,
While sparing and shielding the helpless and old.
Once and again is the issue tried,
Ere sinks the “sons of Kauta’s” pride.
Once and again!—’tis useless all;—
They front the white man but to fall.
And now on the march, to wondering eyes,
The land’s bright beauties around them rise;
The green hill’s verdure,—the vale’s soft sweep,—
The beetling crag on the mountain steep.
The view sublime o’er the gorges grand,
Where the Bashee winds towards ocean’s strand.
While fountains sparkle—and woodlands wave
O’er the shore that the sea’s blue waters lave.
Alas! alas!—with its beauties rare,
That the war-smoke should blacken a land so fair.
All is not sunshine; storm-winds rise,
And torrents pour from the darkened skies:
Dreary the march o’er the mist-clad heights,—
Weary the watch through the dark cold nights;
Baffling the beat of the driving rain,
Baulking the conflict again and again.
But no chilled spirits;—the hearts beat strong,
And the fiercer the rainstorm the louder the song.