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.’