THE DEFENCE OF RORKE’S DRIFT. JANUARY 22-23, 1879.

Come listen for a moment, All ye, whose peaceful life In even flow is ne’er disturbed By scenes of blood and strife; Who sit around your hearth fires, Secure from war’s alarms; This humble lay sets forth to-day A British deed of arms. Left on the wild, lone border, A small but fearless band, Guarding the watery entrance To savage Zululand; On the warm mid-day breezes, Like thunder’s distant sound, Came the long roll of cannon Far o’er the hostile ground, And we wondered that our column So soon the foe had found. Then came two flying horsemen Riding with loosened rein, And the powdery dust like a whirlwind rose As they scoured across the plain; A few more rapid hoof-strokes, And we heard the news they bore— “In yonder glen nigh half our men Lie weltering in their gore! “’Twas shortly after noontide, The column was away; Swept the dark hordes in myriads down Like wolves upon their prey; Vainly the deadly hailstorm Boomed from the cannon loud— Vainly we tried to stem the tide Of the black surging crowd. “Our men, too soon surrounded, Were slaughtered as they stood, Facing their slayers to the last, Dying as soldiers should. How we escaped we know not, From that fierce whirlwind’s frown, But on this post a conquering host E’en now is marching down!” As men who dream, we heard them, And awestruck, stood aghast; And through each heart there went a chill Like the breath of an icy blast; We thought of those who left us In the glow of their martial pride, Now with the dead in the slaughter red, Stark on the wild hill-side. 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. Behind the western ridges The sun’s red lamp sank down, The twilight shadows seemed to cast O’er all a threatening frown; We gazed with mingled feelings On the last-fading beam, Should we, too, lie ’neath the cold grey sky, Stark in the dawning gleam? We looked at one another, Then at the purpling west, Then came the thought of our noble trust, Filling each soldier breast; And there, that trust defending, We’d perish as we stood— Telling of death seemed the night-wind’s breath, Heavy and dank with blood. Again the thrilling war-cry In wild shrill notes rang out, Again th’ infuriate mass bore down Upon our frail redoubt; They poured their swarming numbers Over the barricade— But one short stand, our gallant band That first mad onslaught stayed. Yet fiercer still and bolder They rushed into the fight— When to the smoke-beclouded sky Shone a dull reddening light: With a chill of consternation We marked the lurid glare, Knowing that then our wounded men Were helpless lying there. Then from the glowing furnace We brought them one by one, But the foe closed up too quickly, Ere half our work was done; We faced the yelling masses, We braved the crackling fire, Till through the smoke the fierce flame broke, Forcing us to retire. The cruel demons entered, All eager for their prey, The helpless sick and wounded Were butchered as they lay; As the huge flames roared upward With red and hungry light, In the fierce glare that met us there— Stood all revealed the fight. Widened the glowing circle Crowded with clamouring bands, All weirdly shone the flashing blades Brandished by grisly hands; Again, again upon us, Poured the dark howling flood, Quivered the ground beneath their bound, Red with our comrades’ blood. We thought of these comrades butchered As they unresisting lay; We ceased to give a passing care To the issue of the fray; We only longed for vengeance On all the fiendish crew, To let them feel our British steel, To strike both oft and true. The flaming pile sank inwards With a roar like thunder’s tone; Arose a sickening stench of blood And many a gurgling moan; Still the terrific war-cry Blent with our furious shout, Harder they pressed upon us— Quicker we drove them out— Hurling them back in the gory track, Upon the clamouring rout. And eyes with lust of carnage, Like coals through the darkness gleamed, And bayonet crashed with stabbing spear, Thick the red torrent streamed: Drowning the roar of battle— Drowning the deafening clang— Each demon yell, like a blast of hell, Fiercer and higher rang. 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. Bertram Mitford.