They have laid their dead, In the river bed, On the site of their last brave stand. They have buried at night, By a lantern light, In a grave that they scooped in the sand. And far and wide, They have done and died, By donga, and veldt, and kloof. And the lonely grave, Of the honoured brave, Is a proof—if we need a proof, They won—and died, And we glorified The men of the barrack schools. They died—and failed, And in wrath we railed At the fault of the bungling fools! And perhaps it is good That we change our mood, And perchance it is well to blame, And to seek elsewhere, For some men to bear, The weight of our foolish shame. But the fight hard fought, Must it go for nought Because of its hapless turn? Must we then withhold, For the life hard sold, The Honour it died to earn? When hot and tired, With the last round fired, And never a ray of hope— What then the shame? They were just the same Who charged Talana’s slope! You may give and take, As the shrapnels rake, When your batt’ry has replied; But you cannot live When there’s too much give, From the guns on the open side. Good men are they, Who gain the day,— And victory is sweet,— And just as brave Who do not rave At every small defeat. For the fight hard fought Must not go for nought, Because of its hapless turn; Nor we withhold, For the life hard sold, The Honour it died to earn. _We gave our best at Waterloo,_ _For the honour of England’s name;_ _We threw our best on a hundred fields_ _To put our foes to shame._ _’Tis good that England’s soldier men_ _To-day can do the same._ *MY PAL, THE BOER* We met without appointment on an ’ill, I comed upon the beggar without warnin’; Layin’ down be’ind a boulder, With ’is rifle to ’is shoulder, He sent along wot’s Dutch for a ’Good-mornin’.’ ’E missed me with a fair amount of skill, An’ ’fore ’e’d time to mount, an’ get from danger, I was takin’ of my rest, By a sittin’ on ’is chest, An’ a sayin’ to the welcome little stranger:— ’My pal, the Boer! You’re a prisoner of war’ (’E tried to break my jaw, but that’s a trifle); ’You can’t escape me, can yer? In the name of Rule Britannia, I commandeer your ’orse an’ Mauser rifle!’ You wouldn’t call ’is manners over bright, An’ you wouldn’t term ’is disposition sunny, An’ ’e ’ad a silly notion That the cause of the commotion Was Chamberlain a-fightin’ for ’is money; An’ ’e fancied that the British flag was white— ’Twas a silly fancy—still we must excuse it, When the Lancers came along ’E felt a trifle _bong_! ’E soon found out the proper way to use it!