The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,
And, leagued to crush thee on the Danube’s side,
The beamed Croat and Bosniak spearman ride;
Still in that vale where Himalaya’s snow
Melts round the corn-fields and the vines below,
The Sikh’s hot cannon, answering ball for ball,
Flames in the breach of Moultan’s shattered wall;
On Chenab’s side the vulture seeks the slain,
And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again.