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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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