Isandula

Near the close of the dim day
That saw defeat of England's pride.
Two horsemen cleave their torrent way
Through the dusk overwhelming tide
Of those who hurl the assagai —
Ruin yawns above their ride.
Swarthy warriors mown like hay —
Carrying with them England's colours
From the field of death and dolours,
Riding from Isandula.

Never draw they bridle rein.
Followed by the loud pursuit
Their swift gallop burns the plain
Until either gallant brute
Failing with the mighty strain
Faints with ebbing life ; on foot
They take up the flight again,
Carrying with them England's colours
From the field of death and dolours,
After dark Isandula.

They have reached the swollen river.
Lurid twilight falls around.
One cries " Comrade, now or never,"
Both have plunged in the profound.
For the goal of their endeavour
Is to land on English ground ;
From their flag no fiend may sever ;
They will save old England's colours
From the field of death and dolours.
Flying from Isandula !

Two warriors on the further shore
Whose crimson glows with other red,
Gashed and waterstained and frore.
Their countrymen discover dead.
Our colours round their waist they wore.
Royal on their lowly bed !
England on their heart they bore ;
Wound in emblems of Her glory.
She remembers them in story.
Weeping for Isandula !