Makefing
M AFEKING , little Mafeking, the pride of the world goes down,
But thine the splendor of days to come, and honor of great renown:
Little city of Afric wilds, bleak by thine Afric streams,
Unknown yesterday, to-day thou art great 'mid the world's great dreams.
Many a mighty onslaught, many a victor's sweep
Of serried charge on chivalrous charge up some world-storied steep—
Many a splendid victory, great in the world's renown;
But never a nobler, truer courage than held thee, little town!
Not thine the splendid onslaught, the victory sudden won;
The deed of valor done in a night, or under one glorious sun;
But thine the long, long waiting, the dying by slow degrees,
The sad, slow-eating horror of hunger and dread disease;
While the foe outside lay waiting, devils in men's disguise,
With murderous hell of shot and shell, 'neath the murderous Afric skies;
Many a deed of heroes, high in the world may shine,
But never a deed, O Mafeking, truer and greater than thine!
Town of thy towns, O Britain, which is thy greatest? Say!
Is it thy great, grim London, gloried and storied and grey?
Is it thy mighty seaport, crown of thy wealth's great crown,
Whence unto the many ports of the world thy myriad ships go down?
Is it thy northern Athens, city of chivalrous fame,
With her great learned dead, her sainted tombs, her monarchs of deathless name?
Are these thy glory, O Britain? Thy splendors of peace are these—
Marts of thy wonderful wealth of the world, thou mistress of widespread seas!
But nearer than these and dearer to the heart of the Empire's pride
Is the little town of the splendid few where Britons for Britain died—
Yea, greater by far and higher, for story and glory to come,
When the mighty names of the world are writ in the books of the thunder of drum.
Dust, in thy great world city, the dead of thy great past sleep:
Storied and gloried in marble column, and honored of those who weep,
Names of a centuried honor, lives of a world's renown,
But none of them greater or truer than those who sleep in thy little town!
Men and women and children, England, these were thine;
Hearts that knew one duty, to die but never repine!
To fight and to suffer for England, for the glory of England's name!
To fight and suffer and struggle, but never that one great shame,
To yield old England's honor unto the world's wide blame!
Weeks, long weeks of waiting, watching for succor to come;
To burrow in earth like rabbits, to wake to the thunder of drum;
Through months, long months, life-eating nights of fever and pain,
Days of watching and hunger borne with a brave disdain;
Bodies disease-racked, deathward, lips firm, fixed to the foe,
To send to the traitor's “Surrender” the Briton's thundering “No!”
To answer them back with their cannon to the last gun's last grim round,
As Britain has answered ever, afloat or greatly aground.
These be thy soldiers, O England! Care for them, honor them, thine!
Greater than bulwarks of granite or iron, thy bulwarks from brine to brine!
Months that eked out slowly, as long-drawn miseries go;
Inside hunger and care and pain, outside the angering foe;
With grim death treading daily the streets of the little town,
Where gaunt-eyed sorrow in woman's guise went patiently up and down,
While near in the woman's laager the children's graveyard grew,
Headstone after headstone, till the toddling feet were few;
And hope deferred grew paler, as under the Afric sky,
Moment by moment, as drowning men sink, they watched their loved ones die.
This for thine honor, O England; and may thy heroes be few
To suffer the sorrows for thy great sake thy heroes of Mafeking knew!
Bravely, as brave men ever, they bore up day by day,
Toiling to hold the city's might and the evil foe at bay,
With the minute gun at morning their sole, dread matin bell,
And the hideous hum of the maiming shot their only funeral knell;
Till after months of slaughter, and famine, hunger and pain,
There broke on their ears the ringing shout of British cheers again;
When bursting through the circling lines in the early morning's glow,
They beat the grim leaguerer back in defeat and conquered the conquering foe.
Never such mad, wild cheering had the leaguered city known;
Never such laughing and shaking of hands in the streets of the little town;
Never such solemn prayers to God as rose to Heaven that day
From lips of men who pray and fight as Britons fight and pray.
These be thy heroes, O England, these be thy brave sons, these,
Greater than bulwarks of granite or iron, thou mistress of world-wide seas;
These be thy sons who come at thy call where the ends of the wide earth meet;
These be thy sons to conquer and save, but never to know defeat.
Town of thy towns, O Britain, which is thy greatest? Say!
Is it thy great, grim London, gloried and storied and grey?
Is it thy mighty seaport, crown of thy wealth's great crown,
Whence unto the many ports of the world thy myriad ships go down?
Is it thy northern Athens, city of chivalrous fame,
With her great learned dead, her sainted tombs, her monarchs of deathless name?
Are these thy glory, O Britain? Thy splendors of peace are these—
Marts of thy wonderful wealth of the world, thou mistress of widespread seas!
But nearer than these and dearer to the heart of the Empire's pride
Is the little town of the splendid few where Britons for Britain died—
Yea, greater by far and higher, for story and glory to come,
When the mighty names of the world are writ in the books of the thunder of drum.
But thine the splendor of days to come, and honor of great renown:
Little city of Afric wilds, bleak by thine Afric streams,
Unknown yesterday, to-day thou art great 'mid the world's great dreams.
Many a mighty onslaught, many a victor's sweep
Of serried charge on chivalrous charge up some world-storied steep—
Many a splendid victory, great in the world's renown;
But never a nobler, truer courage than held thee, little town!
Not thine the splendid onslaught, the victory sudden won;
The deed of valor done in a night, or under one glorious sun;
But thine the long, long waiting, the dying by slow degrees,
The sad, slow-eating horror of hunger and dread disease;
While the foe outside lay waiting, devils in men's disguise,
With murderous hell of shot and shell, 'neath the murderous Afric skies;
Many a deed of heroes, high in the world may shine,
But never a deed, O Mafeking, truer and greater than thine!
Town of thy towns, O Britain, which is thy greatest? Say!
Is it thy great, grim London, gloried and storied and grey?
Is it thy mighty seaport, crown of thy wealth's great crown,
Whence unto the many ports of the world thy myriad ships go down?
Is it thy northern Athens, city of chivalrous fame,
With her great learned dead, her sainted tombs, her monarchs of deathless name?
Are these thy glory, O Britain? Thy splendors of peace are these—
Marts of thy wonderful wealth of the world, thou mistress of widespread seas!
But nearer than these and dearer to the heart of the Empire's pride
Is the little town of the splendid few where Britons for Britain died—
Yea, greater by far and higher, for story and glory to come,
When the mighty names of the world are writ in the books of the thunder of drum.
Dust, in thy great world city, the dead of thy great past sleep:
Storied and gloried in marble column, and honored of those who weep,
Names of a centuried honor, lives of a world's renown,
But none of them greater or truer than those who sleep in thy little town!
Men and women and children, England, these were thine;
Hearts that knew one duty, to die but never repine!
To fight and to suffer for England, for the glory of England's name!
To fight and suffer and struggle, but never that one great shame,
To yield old England's honor unto the world's wide blame!
Weeks, long weeks of waiting, watching for succor to come;
To burrow in earth like rabbits, to wake to the thunder of drum;
Through months, long months, life-eating nights of fever and pain,
Days of watching and hunger borne with a brave disdain;
Bodies disease-racked, deathward, lips firm, fixed to the foe,
To send to the traitor's “Surrender” the Briton's thundering “No!”
To answer them back with their cannon to the last gun's last grim round,
As Britain has answered ever, afloat or greatly aground.
These be thy soldiers, O England! Care for them, honor them, thine!
Greater than bulwarks of granite or iron, thy bulwarks from brine to brine!
Months that eked out slowly, as long-drawn miseries go;
Inside hunger and care and pain, outside the angering foe;
With grim death treading daily the streets of the little town,
Where gaunt-eyed sorrow in woman's guise went patiently up and down,
While near in the woman's laager the children's graveyard grew,
Headstone after headstone, till the toddling feet were few;
And hope deferred grew paler, as under the Afric sky,
Moment by moment, as drowning men sink, they watched their loved ones die.
This for thine honor, O England; and may thy heroes be few
To suffer the sorrows for thy great sake thy heroes of Mafeking knew!
Bravely, as brave men ever, they bore up day by day,
Toiling to hold the city's might and the evil foe at bay,
With the minute gun at morning their sole, dread matin bell,
And the hideous hum of the maiming shot their only funeral knell;
Till after months of slaughter, and famine, hunger and pain,
There broke on their ears the ringing shout of British cheers again;
When bursting through the circling lines in the early morning's glow,
They beat the grim leaguerer back in defeat and conquered the conquering foe.
Never such mad, wild cheering had the leaguered city known;
Never such laughing and shaking of hands in the streets of the little town;
Never such solemn prayers to God as rose to Heaven that day
From lips of men who pray and fight as Britons fight and pray.
These be thy heroes, O England, these be thy brave sons, these,
Greater than bulwarks of granite or iron, thou mistress of world-wide seas;
These be thy sons who come at thy call where the ends of the wide earth meet;
These be thy sons to conquer and save, but never to know defeat.
Town of thy towns, O Britain, which is thy greatest? Say!
Is it thy great, grim London, gloried and storied and grey?
Is it thy mighty seaport, crown of thy wealth's great crown,
Whence unto the many ports of the world thy myriad ships go down?
Is it thy northern Athens, city of chivalrous fame,
With her great learned dead, her sainted tombs, her monarchs of deathless name?
Are these thy glory, O Britain? Thy splendors of peace are these—
Marts of thy wonderful wealth of the world, thou mistress of widespread seas!
But nearer than these and dearer to the heart of the Empire's pride
Is the little town of the splendid few where Britons for Britain died—
Yea, greater by far and higher, for story and glory to come,
When the mighty names of the world are writ in the books of the thunder of drum.
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