VII

Hark cannonade, fusilade! is it true what was told by the

scout

Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell

mutineers?

Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears! All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers,

Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come

out,

Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusil

eers,

Kissing the war-hardened hand of the Highlander wet with their tears!

Dance to the pibroch!-saved! we are saved!-is it you? is

it you?

Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven!

"Hold it for fifteen days!" we have held it for eighty-seven! And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW

[SEPTEMBER 26, 1857]

Он, that last day in Lucknow fort!

We knew that it was the last;
That the enemy's lines crept surely on,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death;
And the men and we all worked on;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair, young, gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,

And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid,

And I took her head on my knee;

"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, "Oh! then please wauken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor,
In the flecking of woodbine-shade,
When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,
And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench,
And hopeless waiting for death;

And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep; and I had my

Of an English village-lane,

dream

And wall and garden;-but one wild scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening

Till a sudden gladness broke

All over her face; and she caught my hand
And drew me near as she spoke:-

"The Hielanders! O! dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa'?

The McGregor's. O! I ken it weel;
It's the grandest o' them a'!

"God bless the bonny Hielanders!

We're saved! we're saved!" she cried;

And fell on her knees; and thanks to God
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry

Had fallen among the men,

And they started back;-they were there to die;

But was life so near them, then?

They listened for life; the rattling fire

Far off, and the far-off roar,

Were all; and the colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

But Jessie said, "The slogan's done;
But winna ye hear it noo,-

The Campbells are comin'? It's no a dream;
Our succors hae broken through!"

We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipes we could not hear;
So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it made its way,-
A thrilling, ceaseless sound:

It was no noise from the strife afar,
Or the sappers under ground.

It was the pipes of the Highlanders!

And now they played Auld Lang Syne, It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line.

And they wept, and shook one another's hands, And the women sobbed in a crowd;

And every one knelt down where he stood,

And we all thanked God aloud.

That happy time, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;

And the general gave her his hand, and cheers
Like a storm from the soldiers burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,
As the pipes played Auld Lang Syne.

Robert Traill Spence Lowell [1816-1891]

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS; OR, THE BRITISH SOLDIER IN CHINA

[1857]

LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.

To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.

Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame,
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,
Like dreams, to come and go;

Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,
One sheet of living snow;

The smoke above his father's door

In gray soft eddyings hung;
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself, so young?

Yes, honor calls!—with strength like steel

He put the vision by;

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,

With knee to man unbent,

Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,

To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed,
Vain, those all-shattering guns,
Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of her sons;

So let his name through Europe ring,-
A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,

Because his soul was great.

Francis Hastings Doyle [1810-1888]

HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY

[OCTOBER 16, 1859]

JOHN BROWN in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,

Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.

There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,

Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;

And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,

Came homeward in the morning-to find his house burned down.

Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;

Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;

And he and his brave boys vowed-so might Heaven help and speed 'em!—

They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ram

rod down.