No pause, no rest! Forward the column pushes
Across the stern and unproductive plain—
And Thirst, Satan's archfiend, darts at the brain
And the weight of the great heat their spirit crushes
To deeper silence and the tired feet bleed—
While the ruthless Turk with yells and sometimes blows
Urges them on beside his impatient steed
To a Future where and how no soldier knows
Beyond the dust-cloud on the horizon's rim,
Beyond the range of Hope—to memories grim.
But neither desert thirst nor fiercest sun
Nor dust-storms, nor the unknown miles ahead
Can touch their heart or clog its valves with dread—
These English lads that fought at Ctesiphon.