Short as was this battle, it was a terrible one for the Kaffirs. Fourteen hundred bodies were found dead on the field, while at least as many more died of their wounds. After this decisive repulse, Makanna surrendered himself to the English, and was sent as a prisoner to Robben Island. Here he remained for a year, with a few followers and slaves whom he was permitted to retain. One day he disarmed the guard, and tried to escape in a boat, but was drowned in the attempt. The subjoined spirited rendering of Makanna’s gathering song is by Mr. Pringle, the poet-traveller in Southern Africa. MAKANNA’S GATHERING. “Wake! Amakosa, wake! And arm yourselves for war, As coming winds the forest shake, I hear a sound from far: It is not thunder in the sky. Nor lion’s roar upon the hill, But the voice of him who sits on high, And bids me speak his will! “He bids me call you forth, Bold sons of Kahabee, To sweep the White Man from the earth, And drive them to the sea: The sea, which heaved them up at first, For Amakosa’s curse and bane, Howls for the progeny she nursed, To swallow them again. “Then come, ye chieftains bold, With war-plumes waving high; Come, every warrior young and old, With club and assagai. Remember how the spoiler’s host Did through the land like locusts range! Your herds, your wives, your comrades lost,-- Remember, and revenge! “Fling your broad shields away, Bootless against such foes; But hand to hand we’ll fight to-day, And with the bayonets close. Grasp each man short his stabbing spear, And, when to battle’s edge we come, Rush on their ranks in full career, And to their hearts strike home! “Wake! Amakosa, wake! And muster for the war: The wizard-wolves from Keisi’s brake, The vultures from afar, Are gathering at Uhlanga’s call, And follow fast our westward way-- For well they know, ere evening fall, They shall have glorious prey!”