The Roll Of The Kettledrum; or, The Lay Of The Last Charger

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,     Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?     Of two such lessons, why forget     The nobler and the manlier one?     -    Byron.     One line of swart profiles and bearded lips dressing,     One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes,     One streak of blue sword-blades all bared for the fleshing,     One row of red nostrils that scent battle-fumes.     Forward! the trumpets were sounding the charge,     The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran,     That music, like wild-fire spreading at large,     Maddend the war-horse as well as the man.     Forward! still forward! we thunderd along,     Steadily yet, for our strength we were nursing;     Tall Ewart, our sergeant, was humming a song,     Lance-corporal Black Will was blaspheming and cursing.     Opend their volley of guns on our right,     Puffs of grey smoke, veiling gleams of red flame,     Curling to leeward, were seen on the height,     Where the batteries were posted, as onward we came.     Spreading before us their cavalry lay,     Squadron on squadron, troop upon troop;     We were so few, and so many were they,     Eagles wait calmly the sparrow-hawks stoop.     Forward! still forward! steed answering steed     Cheerily neighd, while the foam flakes were tossd     From bridle to bridle, the top of our speed     Was gaind, but the pride of our order was lost.     One was there leading by nearly a rood,     Though we were racing he kept to the fore,     Still as a rock in his stirrups he stood,     High in the sunlight his sabre he bore.     Suddenly tottering, backwards he crashd,     Loudly his helm right in front of us rung;     Iron hoofs thunderd, and naked steel flashd     Over him, youngest, where many were young.     Now we were close to them, every horse striding     Madly; St. Luce passd with never a groan;     Sadly my master lookd round, he was riding     On the boys right, with a line of his own.     Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket,     While from his wrist the sword swung by a chain,     Swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket,     Kissd it (I think) and replaced it again.     Burst, while his fingers reclosed on the haft,     Jarring concussion and earth shaking din,     Horse counterd horse, and I reeld, but he laughd,     Down went his man, cloven clean to the chin!     Wedged in the midst of that struggling mass,     After the first shock, where each his foe singled,     Little was seen, save a dazzle, like glass     In the sun, with grey smoke and black dust intermingled.     Here and there reddend a pistol shot, flashing     Through the red sparkle of steel upon steel!     Redder the spark seemd, and louder the clashing,     Struck from the helm by the iron-shod heel!     Over fallen riders, like witherd leaves strewing     Uplands in autumn, we sunderd their ranks;     Steeds rearing and plunging, men hacking and hewing,     Fierce grinding of sword-blades, sharp goading of flanks.     Short was the crisis of conflict soon over,     Being too good (I suppose) to last long;     Through them we cut, as the scythe cuts the clover,     Batterd and staind we emergd from their throng.     Some of our saddles were emptied, of course;     To heaven (or elsewhere) Black Will had been carried!     Ned Sullivan mounted Wills riderless horse,     His mare being hurt, while ten seconds we tarried.     And then we re-formed, and went at them once more,     And ere they had rightly closed up the old track,     We broke through the lane we had opend before,     And as we went forward een so we came back.     Our numbers were few, and our loss far from small,     They could fight, and, besides, they were twenty to one;     We were clear of them all when we heard the recall,     And thus we returned, but my tale is not done.     For the hand of my rider felt strange on my bit,     He breathed once or twice like one partially choked,     And swayd in his seat, then I knew he was hit;     He must have bled fast, for my withers were soakd,     And scarcely an inch of my housing was dry;     I slackend my speed, yet I never quite stoppd,     Ere he patted my neck, said, Old fellow, good-bye!     And droppd off me gently, and lay where he droppd!     Ah, me! after all, they may call us dumb creatures,     I tried hard to neigh, but the sobs took my breath,     Yet I guessd gazing down at those still, quiet features,     He was never more happy in life than in death.     -    -    -    -    -    -     Two years back, at Aldershot, Elrington mentioned     My name to our colonel one field-day. He said,     Count, Steeltrap, and Challenger ought to be pensiond;     Count died the same week, and now Steeltrap is dead.     That morning our colonel was riding Theresa,     The filly by Teddington out of Mistake;     His girls, pretty Alice and fair-haired Louisa,     Were there on the ponies he purchased from Blake.     I remember he pointed me out to his daughters,     Said he, In this troop I may fairly take pride,     But Ive none left like him in my officers quarters,     Whose life-blood the mane of old Challenger dyed.     Where are they? the war-steeds who shared in our glory,     The Lanercost colt, and the Acrobat mare,     And the Irish division, Kate Kearney and Rory,     And rushing Roscommon, and eager Kildare,     And Freeny, a favourite once with my master,     And Warlock, a sluggard, but honest and true,     And Tancred, as honest as Warlock, but faster,     And Blacklock, and Birdlime, and Molly Carew?     All vanishd, what wonder! twelve summers have passd     Since then, and my comrade lies buried this day,     Old Steeltrap, the kicker, and now Im the last     Of the chargers who shared in that glorious fray.     -    -    -    -    -    -     Come, Harlequin, keep your nose out of my manger,     Youll get your allowance, my boy, and no more;     Snort! Silvertail, snort! when youve seen as much danger     As I have, you wont mind the rats in the straw.     -    -    -    -    -    -     Our gallant old colonel came limping and halting,     The day before yesterday, into my stall;     Oh! light to the saddle Ive once seen him vaulting,     In full marching order, steel broadsword and all.     And now his left leg than his right is made shorter     Three inches, he stoops, and his chest is unsound;     He spoke to me gently, and patted my quarter,     I laid my ears back, and lookd playfully round.     For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given,     I thankd him, though dumb, but my cheerfulness fled;     More sadness I drew from the face of the living     Than years back I did from the face of the dead.     For the dead face, upturnd, tranquil, joyous, and fearless,     Lookd straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky     With a smile; but the living face, gloomy and tearless,     And haggard and harassd, lookd down with a sigh.     Did he think on the first time he kissd Lady Mary?     On the morning he wingd Horace Greville the beau?     On the winner he steerd in the grand military?     On the charge that he headed twelve long years ago?     Did he think on each fresh year, of fresh grief the herald?     On lids that are sunken, and locks that are grey?     On Alice, who bolted with Brian Fitzgerald?     On Rupert, his first-born, dishonourd by play?     On Louey, his darling, who sleeps neath the cypress,     That shades her and one whose last breath gave her life?     I saw those strong fingers hard over each eye press,     Oh! the dead rest in peace when the quick toil in strife!     -    -    -    -    -    -     Scoff, man! egotistical, proud, unobservant,     Since I with mans grief dare to sympathise thus;     Why scoff? fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant     Of God, can man fathom Gods dealings with us?     The wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider     Than that which parts you from some being more blest;     And there may be more links twixt the horse and his rider     Than ever your shallow philosophy guessd.     You are proud of your power, and vain of your courage,     And your blood, Anglo-Saxon, or Norman, or Celt;     Though your gifts you extol, and our gifts you disparage,     Your perils, your pleasures, your sorrows weve felt.     We, too, sprung from mares of the prophet of Mecca,     And nursed on the pride that was born with the milk,     And filtered through Crucifix, Beeswing, Rebecca,     We love sheen of scarlet and shimmer of silk.     We, too, sprung from loins of the Ishmaelite stallions,     We glory in daring that dies or prevails;     From counter of squadrons, and crash of battalions,     To rending of blackthorns, and rattle of rails.     In all strife where courage is tested, and power,     From the meet on the hill-side, the horn-blast, the find,     The burst, the long gallop that seems to devour     The champaign, all obstacles flinging behind,     To the cheer and the clarion, the war-music blended     With war-cry, the furious dash at the foe,     The terrible shock, the recoil, and the splendid     Bare sword, flashing blue, rising red from the blow.     Ive borne ONE through perils where many have seen us,     No tyrant, a kind friend, a patient instructor,     And Ive felt some strange element flashing between us,     Till the saddle seemd turnd to a lightning conductor.     Did he see? could he feel through the faintness, the numbness,     While lingerd the spirit half-loosed from the clay,     Dumb eyes seeking his in their piteous dumbness,     Dumb quivering nostrils, too stricken to neigh?     And what then? the colours reversed, the drums muffled,     The black nodding plumes, the dead march and the pall,     The stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled,     The slow sacred music that floats over all!     Cross carbine and boar-spear, hang bugle and banner,     Spur, sabre, and snaffle, and helm, Is it well?     Vain scutcheon, false trophies of Mars and Diana,     Can the dead laurel sprout with the live immortelle?     It may be, we follow, and though we inherit     Our strength for a season, our pride for a span,     Say! vanity are they? vexation of spirit?     Not so, since they serve for a time horse and man.     They serve for a time, and they make life worth living,     In spite of lifes troubles, tis vain to despond;     Oh, man! WE at least, WE enjoy, with thanksgiving,     Gods gifts on this earth, though we look not beyond.     You sin, and you suffer, and we, too, find sorrow,     Perchance through your sin, yet it soon will be oer;     We labour to-day, and we slumber to-morrow,     Strong horse and bold rider! and who knoweth more?     -    -    -    -    -    -     In our barrack-square shouted Drill-sergeant MCluskie,     The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran,     The colonel wheeld short, speaking once, dry and husky,     Would to God I had died with your master, old man!