The Dublin Fusilier

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.