Still the bright volley’s flashing
Showed the wild frenzied crowd,
Their shields and spear-hafts clashing—
Their war shouts pealing loud—
And myriad eyeballs glowing,
Like starlit ocean tossed—
And blood, like water, flowing,
When splintering weapons crossed.
Our bayonets blunt and twisted,
All dripping black with gore;
And many an open bleeding gash
Its own grim witness bore;
Our brains all faint and dizzy,
Our throats all parched with thirst,
At every shot our guns grew hot
As though about to burst.
Again, again, we met them
Through the long fearful night;
We fought as ne’er we fought before
And ne’er again may fight,
To ’venge our slaughtered comrades,
To guard our solemn trust,
And to reclaim our country’s name
Trampled in savage dust.
We stood upon our rampart,
As paled the morning star,
We saw the baffled foe retreat
Over the hills afar;
The long night’s deadly struggle
Seemed like a troubled dream—
Our peril passed, new hope at last
Came with the dawning gleam.
Piled high against our breastwork,
And scattered o’er the plain,
Four hundred of their warrior strength
Lay stark amid the slain—
Lay where their fierce hot lifeblood
The greedy earth had wet—
Still terrible, in threatening scowl,
Each grim dead face was set.
Our strength and ammunition
Alike were well-nigh spent—
On an approaching dust-cloud
Our eager glance was bent,
There moving slow and rising,
Far in the hostile land,
Till, through the haze, our straining gaze
Descried an armèd band.
Is it the foe returning,
’Gainst us in greater strength?—
We watched the distant column
Deploying in its length:
Hurrah—the British scarlet
Gleams in the morning sun—
We’ll see once more old England’s shore,
Her thanks we’ve fairly won.
Yes, for old England’s honour
And for her perilled might,
We strove with vast and whelming odds,
From eve till morning light;
And thus with front unflinching,
One hundred strong we stood,
And held the post ’gainst a maddened host
Drunken with British blood.
And twelve from out our number
Their brave career had run,
Their final muster-roll had passed,
And their last duty done;
So carefully we laid them
Deep in the green earth’s breast,
An alien sod above them trod;—
Peace with their ashes rest!
Her sons, in gallant story,
Shall sound old England’s fame,
And by fresh deeds of glory
Shall keep alive her name;
And when, above her triumphs,
The golden curtains lift—
Be treasured long, in page and song,
The memory of Rorke’s Drift.