Brave Horatius, Herve Riel,
Tell, and Paul Revere—
Shades of all who saved a nation—
Pray you, lend an ear.

This no tale of medalled hero,
But a man like you,
Who, stout-hearted, saved the State by
Deed of derring-do.

Sixty years since, by the Bay side
Where the wharves now spread,
'Midst the mangroves, by Boer bullets
Lay our English dead.

Luckless battle! for the foemen,
Ambushed, saw our band
Clear against the moonlit skyline
Toiling through the sand.

Fell our men like hail-swept blossoms,
And ‘Retreat’ rang out.
Faint with wounds the vanquished waded
To the camp in rout.

Still the Ensign hemmed with foemen
O'er the blue Bay streamed;
And disaster was to be by
British pluck redeemed.

Reinforcements weary leagues off!
So the foes might boast.
He alone, the sturdy farmer,
Knew the pathless coast.

Go by railway? Send by steamship?
Can't they telegraph?
Why! in wilds 'twixt here and Capetown
Roamed the tall giraffe.

Miles on miles and ne'er a white face,
Sometimes not a black,
Toilsome hill and burning valley,
Veld without a track.

‘Will you go, Dick?’ said the Captain,
‘You have got the key
To our safety: dare you risk it?’
What reply made he?

None at all! but boot and saddle—
Girt him for the course—
Grahamstown six hundred miles off,
And the saviour force.

Where now masts and funnels gather,
Steed and rider raced;
Round the Bluff, where monkeys chattered
And the lion paced.

Through the heat and swirling sea sand,
Through the forest shade;
Thorns may tear, and sun may blister,
He may not be stayed.

Never time for waxing weary,
Just enough for breath:
Care was constant at his elbow,
And behind rode Death.

Backward where the trees are thinnest,
Boers in hot pursuit,
Bullets flying while he dashes
Through the stony spruit.

Fell the night when he was guided
By the breakers' roar—
Wet and cold from fording rivers
For a week and more.

And whene'er a mission homestead
Broke some dreary plain,
Mud-besprent and pale with speeding,
Dick drew willing rein.

On again, with pace unflagging,
O'er rock, stream, and sand!
Fears for that far leaguered handful
Nerving heart and hand.

When at last for horse and rider
Ends the toilsome strain,
Dick, with feeble arm uplifted,
Strives to shout—in vain,

Draws the missive from his jerkin,
Swoons upon his steed—
Rings a cheer from English throats then
For his doughty deed!

Race, ye jockeys, round your courses!
None of you, I ween,
Could have picked the course that he did
For our home and Queen.

What his guerdon? rank and honours?
We are debtors still
To the loyal soul who saved us
By his iron will.

Richard King!—i' faith, King Richard!
Gallant farmer man,
This to you, Natalian hero,
And the race you ran!