For the last redoubt up the hill remained,
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.

Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;

His lips were clinched and his look was weird;
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.

"Clear me the Muscovite out!" he cried;

Then the name of "Allah!" echoed wide,

And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets lowered, And on to the last redoubt they poured.

One fell, and a second quickly stopped

The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped;

The second, a third straight filled his place;

The third, and a fourth kept up the race.

Many a fez in the mud was crushed,
Many a throat that cheered was hushed,
Many a heart that sought the crest
Found Allah's arms and a houri's breast.

Over their corpses the living sprang,
And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang,
Till the faces that lined the last redoubt
Could see their faces and hear their shout.

In the redoubt a fair form towered,

That cheered up the brave and chid the coward;
Brandishing blade with a gallant air;

His head erect and his bosom bare.

"Fly! they are on us!" his men implored;
But he waved them on with his waving sword.

"It cannot be held; 'tis no shame to go!"
But he stood with his face set hard to the foe.

Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt;

He drew a pistol from out his belt,

And fired it blank at the first that set

Foot on the edge of the parapet

Over that first one toppled; but on

Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone,
As hurriedly fled his men dismayed,

Not a bayonet's length from the length of his blade.

"Yield!" But aloft his steel he flashed,
And down on their steel it ringing clashed;
Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt,
His honor full, but his life-blood spilt.

They lifted him up from the dabbled ground;
His limbs were shapely and soft and round,
No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade,—
"Bismillah!" they cried, "tis an infidel maid!"

Mehemet Ali came and saw

The riddled breast and the tender jaw.
"Make her a bier of your arms," he said,
"And daintily bury this dainty dead!

"Make her a grave where she stood and fell, 'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture's smell Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight, In their lines we had scarcely supped to-night."

So a deeper trench 'mong the trenches there
Was dug, for the form as brave as fair;
And none, till the judgment trump and shout,
Shall drive her out of the last redoubt.

Alfred Austin [1835

"FUZZY-WUZZY”

(SOUDAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, 1889)

WE'VE fought with many men acrost the seas,

An' some of em' was brave an' some was not:

The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;

But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.

We never got a ha' porth's change of 'im:

'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses, 'E cut our sentries up at Suakim,

An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in
the Sowdan;

You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class
fightin' man;

We gives you your certifikit, an' if you want it signed

We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.

We took our chanst among the Kyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,

The Burman guv us Irriwaddy chills,

An' a Zulu impi dished us up in style:

But all we ever got from such as they

Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;

We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,

But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.

Then 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;

Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went and did.

We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;

But for all the odds agin you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you bruk the square.

'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,

'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,

So we most certify the skill 'e's shown

In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:

When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush

With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,

A 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush

Will last a 'ealthy Tommy for a year.

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which is no more,

If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;

But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,

For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!

'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,

An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;

'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,

An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.

'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!

'E's a injia-rubber idiot on a spree,

'E's the only thing that doesn't care a damn For the Regiment o' British Infantree.

So here's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Sowdan;

You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;

An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick
'ead of hair-

You big black boundin' beggar-for you bruk a
British square.

Rudyard Kipling [1865

THE WORD OF THE LORD FROM HAVANA

[FEBRUARY 16, 1898]

THUS spake the Lord:

Because ye have not heard,

Because ye have given no heed
To my people in their need,

Because the oppressed cried
From the dust where he died,
And ye turned your face away
From his cry in that day,

Because ye have bought and sold
That which is above gold,

Because your brother is slain

While ye get you drunk with gain,

(Behold, these are my people, I have brought them to birth

On whom the mighty have trod,

The kings of the earth,

Saith the Lord God!)

Because ye fawned and bowed down

Lest the spoiler frown,

And the wrongs that the spoiled have borne

Ye have held in scorn,

Therefore with rending and flame

I have marred and smitten you,
Therefore I have given you to shame,
That the nations shall spit on you.

Therefore my Angel of Death

Hath stretched out his hand on you,
Therefore I speak in my wrath,

Laying command on you;

(Once have I bared my sword,

And the kings of the earth gave a cry;

Twice have I bared my sword,

That the kings of the earth should die;
Thrice shall I bare my sword,

And ye shall know my name, that it is I!)

Ye who held peace less than right

When a king laid a pitiful tax on you,

Hold not your hand from the fight

When freedom cries under the axe on you!

(I who called France to you, call you to Cuba in turn!
Repay-lest I cast you adrift and you perish astern!)

Ye who made war that your ships
Should lay to at the beck of no nation,
Make war now on Murder, that slips
The leash of her hounds of damnation!