We looked to our defences
Ere darkness should come on,
And others passed from the fatal field,
They warned us, and were gone;
We called on them to aid us
In the approaching fight—
They would not hear—the voice of fear
Lent wings to their headlong flight.
“The foe comes down in thousands,
Away—for all is lost!”
“Not so—our orders are to hold
The Drift at any cost;
Long has the firing sounded
And succour may be nigh,
If not—why then we’re Englishmen,
At duty’s call we’ll die!”
We set to work undaunted
To raise a barricade,
With mealie bags and scattered stores
A breastwork soon had made;
And scarcely was it finished,
When burst upon our sight,
Dark as the lowering storm-cloud
Sweeps the blue vaulted height,
Moving along the fair hill-side,
In vast black lines extending wide,
Rank upon rank of warriors tried,
In panoply of savage pride
Advancing to the fight.
Above the dusky phalanx
We marked each ring-girt head,
We felt the hard earth tremble
Under their heavy tread,—
The martial tread of thousands
In full array of war—
Each sinewy frame well trained to wield
Broad assegai and tufted shield,
Washed upon many a hard-fought field
In vanquished foeman’s gore.
Yes, on they come in thousands—
One hundred strong we stand,
Against the very pick and flower
Of warrior Zululand:
And how may we resist them,
Or hope to hold our own,
Flushed as they be with victory—
The greatest e’er they’ve known?
They pressed in silence forward
At a swift but steady run,
Red glowed their blades in the golden beams
Of the declining sun;
With gliding undulation,
On, on their masses came—
A mighty crash—a lightning flash—
Streamed the death-dealing flame.
Still the black wave rolled onward—
Again the word rang out,
With the sharp volley’s crackling voice
Arose a deafening shout:
Blent with the rush of thousands
Over the rumbling ground,
The battle-cry pealed to the sky,
Starting the echoes round.
’Tis long since that wild slogan
Rallied these bands to war,
The dreaded hosts of Zululand
Now in the field once more;
Oft have the neighbouring tribesmen,
At the blood-curdling tone,
Awoke in the calm still hours of night,
To flee by their blazing kraals’ red light,
To forest thickets lone.
’Neath far Quathlamba’s ridges
Cut clear against the sky,
Where now, upon those grassy slopes,
Snug homesteads nestling lie;
As sweeping down resistless,
A black o’erwhelming flood,
The ruthless hordes fell on their prey,
And broad their dark destroying way
Was long mapped out, for many a day,
By ruins soaked in blood.
Their forward van all shaken,
They wavered—then fell back—
Bestrewn with dark grim corpses
Was all the gory track:
They turned to seek for cover,
They’d seen what we could do,
And overhead, with angry whiz,
Like hail their bullets flew.
And by their hosts surrounded,
Nigh forty men to one,
We vainly scanned the darkling waste
Ere twilight should be done;
As waif on the wide ocean,
Looks for the rescuing sail,
When dim shades sweep the surging deep,
And louder roars the gale.