Our Boys

“Our boys came back from the army’s van;
Toilworn with travel each horse and man,--
Bronzed nigh to blackness each face and hand,--
But bright every eye of the youthful band.

They had sprung “to the front” at the war’s first call,
And a warrior’s welcome had greeted them all.
“First in the field!--’twas your father’s wont;
And the right to your place in the army’s front,
Through the whole campaign ye shall yield to none,
Rest horses awhile, boys, and then,--march on;
Elliot and Bailie your leaders shall be,
And your post the heights of the deep Bashee.”

* * *

Loud through the camp the “Assembly” rings;
Quick to the saddle each horseman springs,--
And “Eastward ho!” is the warlike cry,
As “Headquarter” cheers give a warm “Good-bye!”

The camp is reached, the “Division” joined,
The “arms of the Service” all combined;
The “fellows” of “Number 6” are there,
Ready each peril and toil to share;
Second to none in the pluck they show,
And eager as any to face the foe.
There are black “allies,” but with leaders white,
To show them the way the “English” fight.

And now they chafe at the long delay;
The halt grows tedious from day to day.
Weary of seeing the wild war-dance
They long for the welcome word “Advance!”
The foe is escaping, and drives afar
His flocks and herds from the field of war.

The slow-footed order comes at last,
And the camp wakes up at the trumpet’s blast;
The column forms quick, as the bugles ring,
The skirmishers scatter on either wing
Where the war-song rises in savage pride,
And its echoes come back from the mountain side.

Few are the chances of open fight,
But enough to tell that the hearts are right,
And eager for battle with warriors bold,
While sparing and shielding the helpless and old.
Once and again is the issue tried,
Ere sinks the “sons of Kauta’s” pride.
Once and again!--’tis useless all;--
They front the white man but to fall.

And now on the march, to wondering eyes,
The land’s bright beauties around them rise;
The green hill’s verdure,--the vale’s soft sweep,--
The beetling crag on the mountain steep.
The view sublime o’er the gorges grand,
Where the Bashee winds towards ocean’s strand.
While fountains sparkle--and woodlands wave
O’er the shore that the sea’s blue waters lave.
Alas! alas!--with its beauties rare,
That the war-smoke should blacken a land so fair.

All is not sunshine; storm-winds rise,
And torrents pour from the darkened skies:
Dreary the march o’er the mist-clad heights,--
Weary the watch through the dark cold nights;
Baffling the beat of the driving rain,
Baulking the conflict again and again.
But no chilled spirits;--the hearts beat strong,
And the fiercer the rainstorm the louder the song.

“Our Boys” came back when their work was done;--
O’er river and mountain their march had gone,
They had stood on Umtata’s farther shore,
Where no white man’s army had stood before.
The foe is scattered,--the land is swept,
By the bands in the rear the “drifts” are kept.
But the toil is telling,--the steeds fail fast;
Umtata’s battle must be the last.

Proud the dismissal “our Boys” receive:--
“First in the field, and the last to leave.”
Prouder the welcome awaiting them here,
As the end of the homeward march draws near.
The cannon is booming!--“They come! They come!”
And the crowds thicken fast at the “Welcome Home!”
Where pennons are streaming, and banners wave,
To hail the return of the youthful brave.

Dark through the dust-cloud the column nears,
And hearts are throbbing ’midst rising tears.
Mothers and sisters, with straining eyes,
Are striving to pierce the strange disguise
In which toil, and combat, and dust, and storms
Have almost hidden the well-known forms
Of sons and brothers long lost from view,
And now emerging to life anew.

To the burst of “The conquering heroes come;”
To the tenderer strains of “Home, sweet home!”
Their march holds still through the thronging crowd,
While kerchiefs are waving, and cheers ring loud,
Till they halt at the spot where the march began,
When they started to join the army’s van.

“Our Boys” had come back to rest awhile;--
To sun each heart in a mother’s smile;--
To tell in a sister’s or loved one’s arms
The thoughts that had cheered them ’midst war’s alarms.
And fathers were waiting with hearts that swell,
To learn if their “lads” had borne them well,--
And the warrior spirit had waked to life
In the first strange vision of mortal strife.
And little prattlers were waiting there
More eager than any to claim their share,
Looking with wondering hearts and eyes
On trophy shields and assegais,
And clustering round their knees to know
How their “big brothers” had beaten the foe.

Once more the “Assembly” rings aloud,
And the “Boys” muster fast ’midst the gathering crowd.
They have come their last “Dismiss!” to hear,
And bid good-bye to the camp’s rough cheer,
To shake brave Harvey’s warm right hand,
Who had headed them well through Galekaland.

* * *

“Boys! I had thought to dissolve your ranks,
And send you home with your country’s thanks.
But again from the mountains the war-cry sounds,
And the tribes on the border are breaking bounds;
The country may need you, hearts and hands,
While taming the pride of the Gaika bands:
Are you willing to answer a second call?”
“Willing! aye Willing! One and All!”

The response rang out, to be drowned among
The echoing cheers of the listening throng;
And if proud we had been of “our Boys” before,
Our triumph and pride gathered head the more,
As they turned from their homes to encamp again,
(With those homes in sight) on the tented plain.
Ready once more, at the trumpet’s clang,
To spring to horse as at first they sprang.