William Henry Drummond - The Dublin FusilierWilliam Henry Drummond - The Dublin Fusilier
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Here`s to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté!
an` slainté galore.
You `re a dacint ould man, begorra; never
mind if you are a Boer.
So with heart an` a half ma boucahl, we `ll
drink to your health to-night
For yourself an` your farmer sojers gave us a
damn good fight.
I was dramin` of Kitty Farrell, away in the
Gap o` Dunloe,
When the song of the bugle woke me, ringin`
across Glencoe;
An` once in a while a bullet came pattherin`
from above,
That tould us the big brown fellows were send-
in` us down their love.
`Twas a kind of an invitation, an` written in
such a han`
That a Chinaman could n`t refuse it- not to
spake of an Irishman.
So the pickets sent back an answer. "We`re
comin` with right good will,"
Along what they call the kopje, tho` to me it
looked more like a hill.
"Fall in on the left," sez the captain, "my
men of the Fusiliers;
You `ll see a great fight this morning -like
you have n`t beheld for years."
"Faith, captain dear," sez the sergeant, "you
can bet your Majuba sword
If the Dutch is as willin` as we are, you never
spoke truer word."
So we scrambled among the bushes, the bowl-
ders an` rocks an` all,
Like the gauger`s men still-huntin` on the
mountains of Donegal;
We doubled an` turned an` twisted the same
as a hunted hare,
While the big guns peppered each other over
us in the air.
Like steam from the divil`s kettle the kopje
was bilin` hot,
For the breeze of the Dutchman`s bullets was
the only breeze we got;
An` many a fine boy stumbled, many a brave
lad died,
When the Dutchman`s message caught him
there on the mountainside.
Little Nelly O`Brien, God help her! over
there at ould Ballybay,
Will wait for a transvaal letter till her face an`
her hair is grey,
For I seen young Crohoore on a stretcher, an`
I knew the poor boy was gone
When I spoke to the ambulance doctor,an` he
nodded an` then passed on.
"Steady there!" cried the captain, "we must
halt for a moment here,"
An` he spoke like a man in trainin` , full winded
an` strong an` clear.
So we threw ourselves down on the kopje,
weary an` tired as death,
Waitin` the captain `s orders, waitin` to get a
breath.
It `s strange all the humours an` fancies that
comes to a man like me;
But the smoke of the battle risin` took me
across the sea-
It `s the mist of Benbo I `m seein`; an` the
rock that we `ll capture soon
Is the rock where I shot the eagle, when I was
a small gosson.
I close my eyes for a minute, an` hear my poor
mother say,
"Patrick, avick, my darlin`, you `re surely not
goin` away
To join the red-coated sojers?"- but the
blood in me was strong-
If your sire was a Connaught Ranger, sure
where would his son belong?
Hark! whisht! do you hear the music comin`
up from the camp below?
An odd note or two when the Maxims take
breath for a second or so,
Liftin` itself on somehow, stealin` its way up
here,
Knowin` there `s waitin` to hear it, many an
Irish ear.
Augh! Garryowen! you `re the jewel! an` we
charged on the Dutchman`s guns,
An` covered the bloody kopje, like a Galway
greyhound runs,
At the top of the hill they met us, with faces
all set and grim;
But they could n`t take the bayonet - that `s
the trouble with most of thim.
So of course, they `ll be praisin` the Royals
an` men of the Fusiliers,
An` the newspapers help to dry up the widows
an` orphans` tears,
An` they `ll write a new name on the colors-
that is, if there `s room for more
An` we `ll follow them thro` the battle, the same
as we `ve done before.
But here `s to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté! an`
slainté galore.
After all, you `re a dacint Christian, never
mind if you are a Boer.
So with heart an` a half, ma boucahl, we `ll
drink to your health to-night,
For yourself an` your brown-faced Dutchmen
gave us a damn good fight.
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