"CLOSE up in front, and steady, lads!" brave Stewart cries, "They're here":

And distant Cheops echoes back our soldiers' answering cheer;

One moment's pause—a year it seems—and swift the Arab horde

Pours forth its mingled tide of hate and yells and spear and sword;

Broken! The square is pierced! But only for a moment, though,

And shoulder-strap to shoulder-strap our brave lads meet the foe;

And on this day the Bedouin learns, in the Mahdi's shattered might,

With what a god-like majesty the island legions fight.

But, oh! the cost, the bitter cost! for ere the set of sun

The bravest heart of Alba's isle its earthly course has run;

And Britain weeps sad, bitter tears whilst flushed with victory,

For on Metemneh's blood-red sand lies noble Burnaby.

Avenged? Behold what hecatombs around the dead man lay

(The royal paw is heaviest when the lion's brought to bay);

And as the shades of even fall upon this day of strife

That heap of slain exceedeth far the foes he slew in life.

And when a sneering alien tongue shall speak of him with scorn,

Or hint at our decaying might, the child as yet unborn

Shall beard the dastard to his teeth, and tell exultingly

How like the Israelite in death was "Samson" Burnaby.

Intriguing Russia's prestige waned in far-off Persia's State

When England's lonely horseman stood at Khiva's guarded gate,

Ay! Bruin of the northern steppes, roll forth thy foetid breath:

Exult since now that lion heart is stilled for aye in death;

And scream thine hate, proud bird of France, beyond thy northern shore,

Perfidious Albion drapes her halls for one who is no more.

Farewell, the last and brightest star of England's chivalry,

'Neath orient skies thou sleepest well, O gallant Burnaby!