THE STORMING PARTY

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
‘Though the breach is steep and narrow,
   If we only gain the summit
      Then it’s odds we hold the fort.
I have ten and you have twenty,
And the thirty should be plenty,
With Henderson and Henty
   And McDermott in support.’

Said Barrow to Leroy,
‘It’s a solid job, my boy,
   For they’ve flanked it, and they’ve banked it,
      And they’ve bored it with a mine.
But it’s only fifty paces
Ere we look them in the faces;
And the men are in their places,
   With their toes upon the line.’

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
‘See that first ray, like an arrow,
   How it tinges all the fringes
      Of the sullen drifting skies.
They told me to begin it
At five-thirty to the minute,
And at thirty-one I’m in it,
   Or my sub will get his rise.

‘So we’ll wait the signal rocket,
Till . . . Barrow, show that locket,
That turquoise-studded locket,
Which you slipped from out your pocket
      And are pressing with a kiss!
   Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,
It is hers!  And I had missed it
From her chain; and you have kissed it:
      Barrow, villain, what is this?’

‘Leroy, I had a warning,
That my time has come this morning,
So I speak with frankness, scorning
   To deny the thing that’s true.
Yes, it’s Amy’s, is the trinket,
Little turquoise-studded trinket,
Not her gift—oh, never think it!
   For her thoughts were all for you.

‘As we danced I gently drew it
From her chain—she never knew it
   But I love her—yes, I love her:
      I am candid, I confess.
But I never told her, never,
For I knew ’twas vain endeavour,
And she loved you—loved you ever,
   Would to God she loved you less!’

‘Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!
Me, your comrade, to betray me!
   Well I know that little Amy
      Is as true as wife can be.
She to give this love-badged locket!
She had rather . . . Ha, the rocket!
Hi, McDougall!  Sound the bugle!
   Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!’

* * * * *

Said Paul Leroy to Amy,
‘Well, wifie, you may blame me,
For my passion overcame me,
   When he told me of his shame;
But when I saw him lying,
Dead amid a ring of dying,
Why, poor devil, I was trying
   To forget, and not to blame.

‘And this locket, I unclasped it
From the fingers that still grasped it:
He told me how he got it,
   How he stole it in a valse.’
And she listened leaden-hearted:
Oh, the weary day they parted!
For she loved him—yes, she loved him—
For his youth and for his truth,
   And for those dying words, so false.

THE FRONTIER LINE

What marks the frontier line?
   Thou man of India, say!
Is it the Himalayas sheer,
The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,
Or Indus as she seeks the south
From Attoch to the fivefold mouth?
      ‘Not that!  Not that!’
   Then answer me, I pray!
What marks the frontier line?

What marks the frontier line?
   Thou man of Burmah, speak!
Is it traced from Mandalay,
And down the marches of Cathay,
From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai,
And where the buried rubies lie?
      ‘Not that!  Not that!’
   Then tell me what I seek:
What marks the frontier line?

What marks the frontier line?
   Thou Africander, say!
Is it shown by Zulu kraal,
By Drakensberg or winding Vaal,
Or where the Shiré waters seek
Their outlet east at Mozambique?
      ‘Not that!  Not that!
   There is a surer way
To mark the frontier line.’

What marks the frontier line?
   Thou man of Egypt, tell!
Is it traced on Luxor’s sand,
Where Karnak’s painted pillars stand,
Or where the river runs between
The Ethiop and Bishareen?
      ‘Not that!  Not that!
   By neither stream nor well
We mark the frontier line.

‘But be it east or west,
   One common sign we bear,
The tongue may change, the soil, the sky,
But where your British brothers lie,
The lonely cairn, the nameless grave,
Still fringe the flowing Saxon wave.
      ’Tis that!  ’Tis where
   They lie—the men who placed it there,
That marks the frontier line.’

CORPORAL DICK’S PROMOTION
A BALLAD OF ’82

The Eastern day was well-nigh o’er
When, parched with thirst and travel sore,
Two of McPherson’s flanking corps
   Across the Desert were tramping.
They had wandered off from the beaten track
And now were wearily harking back,
Ever staring round for the signal jack
   That marked their comrades camping.

The one was Corporal Robert Dick,
Bearded and burly, short and thick,
Rough of speech and in temper quick,
   A hard-faced old rapscallion.
The other, fresh from the barrack square,
Was a raw recruit, smooth-cheeked and fair
Half grown, half drilled, with the weedy air
   Of a draft from the home battalion.

Weary and parched and hunger-torn,
They had wandered on from early morn,
And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn,
   Now stumbling and now falling.
Around the orange sand-curves lay,
Flecked with boulders, black or grey,
Death-silent, save that far away
   A kite was shrilly calling.

A kite?  Was that a kite?  The yell
That shrilly rose and faintly fell?
No kite’s, and yet the kite knows well
   The long-drawn wild halloo.
And right athwart the evening sky
The yellow sand-spray spurtled high,
And shrill and shriller swelled the cry
   Of ‘Allah!  Allahu!’

The Corporal peered at the crimson West,
Hid his pipe in his khaki vest.
Growled out an oath and onward pressed,
   Still glancing over his shoulder.
‘Bedouins, mate!’ he curtly said;
‘We’ll find some work for steel and lead,
And maybe sleep in a sandy bed,
   Before we’re one hour older.

‘But just one flutter before we’re done.
Stiffen your lip and stand, my son;
We’ll take this bloomin’ circus on:
   Ball-cartridge load!  Now, steady!’
With a curse and a prayer the two faced round,
Dogged and grim they stood their ground,
And their breech-blocks snapped with a crisp clean sound
   As the rifles sprang to the ‘ready.’

Alas for the Emir Ali Khan!
A hundred paces before his clan,
That ebony steed of the prophet’s breed
   Is the foal of death and of danger.
A spurt of fire, a gasp of pain,
A blueish blurr on the yellow plain,
The chief was down, and his bridle rein
   Was in the grip of the stranger.

With the light of hope on his rugged face,
The Corporal sprang to the dead man’s place,
One prick with the steel, one thrust with the heel,
   And where was the man to outride him?
A grip of his knees, a toss of his rein,
He was settling her down to her gallop again,
When he stopped, for he heard just one faltering word
   From the young recruit beside him.

One faltering word from pal to pal,
But it found the heart of the Corporal.
He had sprung to the sand, he had lent him a hand,
   ‘Up, mate!  They’ll be ’ere in a minute;
Off with you!  No palaver!  Go!
I’ll bide be’ind and run this show.
Promotion has been cursed slow,
   And this is my chance to win it.’

Into the saddle he thrust him quick,
Spurred the black mare with a bayonet prick.
Watched her gallop with plunge and with kick
   Away o’er the desert careering.
Then he turned with a softened face,
And loosened the strap of his cartridge-case,
While his thoughts flew back to the dear old place
   In the sunny Hampshire clearing.

The young boy-private, glancing back,
Saw the Bedouins’ wild attack,
And heard the sharp Martini crack.
   But as he gazed, already
The fierce fanatic Arab band
Was closing in on every hand,
Until one tawny swirl of sand,
   Concealed them in its eddy.

* * * * *

A squadron of British horse that night,
Galloping hard in the shadowy light,
Came on the scene of that last stern fight,
   And found the Corporal lying
Silent and grim on the trampled sand,
His rifle grasped in his stiffened hand,
With the warrior pride of one who died
   ’Mid a ring of the dead and the dying.

And still when twilight shadows fall,
After the evening bugle call,
In bivouac or in barrack-hall,
His comrades speak of the Corporal,
   His death and his devotion.
And there are some who like to say
That perhaps a hidden meaning lay
In the words he spoke, and that the day
When his rough bold spirit passed away
   Was the day that he won promotion.