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William 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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