THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW (MARCH

1863)

BY R. T. S. LOWELL

Oh! that last day in Lucknow fort!
We knew that it was the last;
That the enemy's mines had crept surely in,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death;
And the men, and we all worked on :
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair young gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,

And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee.

When my father comes hame frae the plough,"

she said,

"Oh! please then waken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor

In the flecking of woodbine shade,

When the house dog sprawls by the open door,
And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke, and roar, and powder stench,
And hopeless waiting for death;

But the soldier's wife, like a full tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep, and I had my dream,
Of an English village lane,

And wall, and garden-a sudden scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

Then Jessie Brown stood listening,

And then a broad gladness broke

All over her face, and she took my hand
And drew me near and spoke :

The Highlanders; oh, dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa—

The Macgregors ?

Ah! I ken it weel;

It's the grandest o' them a';

"God bless thae bonnie Highlanders !
We're saved! we're saved!" she cried;
And fell on her knees, and thanks to God
Poured forth, like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery line her cry
Had fallen among the men,

And they started, for they were there to die;
Was life so near them then?

They listened for life: but the rattling fire
Far off and the far-off roar

Were all; and the colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said: "That slogan's dune;
But can ye no hear them, noo ?—

The Campbells are coming! It's no' a dream;
Our succours hae broken through !”

We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipes we could not hear;

So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it must be heard—
A shrilling, ceaseless sound;

It was no noise of the strife afa
Or the sappers under ground.

It was the pipes of the Highlanders,

And now they play'd "Auld Lang Syne "
It came to our men like the voice of God,
And they shouted along the line.

And they wept, and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobb'd in a crowd!

And every one knelt down where we stood,
And we all thanked God aloud.

That happy day when we welcomed them
Our men put Jessie first:

And the general took her hand, and cheers
From the men, like a volley, burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream d
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears.
For the pipes played "Auld Lang Syne."

THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR

[Told to the Author by the late Sir Charles James Napier.]

BY SIR FRANCIS H. DOYLE

ELEVEN men of England

A breast-work charged in vain ;
Eleven men of England

Lie stripped and gashed, and slain.
Slain; but of foes that guarded

Their rock-built fortress well,
Some twenty had been mastered,
When the last soldier fell,

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way
Across the sand waves of the desert sea,

Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dis-
may,

Lord of their wild Truckee.1

These missed the glen to which their steps
were bent,

Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard
And, in that glorious error, calmly went
To death without a word.

The robber-chief mused deeply,

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Above those daring dead;

'Bring here," at length he shouted,
Bring quick, the battle thread.

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Let Eblis blast for ever

Their souls if Allah will:

But we must keep unbroken

The old rules of the Hill.

"Before the Ghiznee tiger
Leapt forth to burn and slay;
Before the holy Prophet

Taught our grim tribes to pray;

Before Secunder's lances

Pierced through each Indian glen;

The mountain laws of honour

Were framed for fearless men.

"Still, when a chief dies bravely,

We bind with green one wrist-
Green for the brave, for heroes
ONE crimson thread we twist.
Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,
For these, whose life has fled,
Which is the fitting colour,

The green one, or the red?

1 A stronghold in the Desert, supposed to be inaccessible and impregnable.

"Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may

wear,

Their green reward," each noble savage said To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,

Who dares deny the red?

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,

Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict

came;

Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height
Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly
Down on those daring dead;
From his good sword their heart's blood
Crept to that crimson thread.
Once more he cried, "The judgment,
Good friends, is wise and true,
But though the red be given,
Have we not more to do?

"These were not stirred by anger
Nor yet by lust made bold;
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold.
To them their leader's signal
Was as the voice of God:
Removed, and uncomplaining
The path it showed they trod.

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'As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march Where Allah's finger guides them Through yonder purple arch, These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went, in the strength of duty, Straight to their goal of death.

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