desperate fight. 
There’s many a wound and many a gash, and the sun-burned face is
  scarred and red;
There’s many a trooper safe and sound, and many a tear for the “pal”
  who’s dead! 
I care so little for rights and wrongs of a terrible war; but the
  world at large—­
It knows so well when duty’s done!—­it will think sometimes of our
  cavalry charge! 
Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! we have solemnly taken an
  oath! and then,
In all the battles throughout the world, we have followed our fathers
  like Englishmen! 
        So pass this blessing the lips between—­
        ’Tis the soldier’s oath—­GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

MAFEKING.

“ADSUM!”

BY REV.  A. FREWEN AYLWARD.

At the evening roll call at the “Charterhouse” School, where Baden-Powell was educated, it is customary for the boys to respond to the call of their names by saying “Adsum—­I’m here!”

Oft as the shades of evening fell,
In the school-boy days of old,—­
The form work done, or the game played well,—­
Clanging aloft the old school bell
Uttered its summons bold;
And a bright lad answered the roll call clear,
“Adsum,—­I’m here!”

A foe-girt town and a captain true
Out on the Afric plain;—­
High overhead his Queen’s flag flew,
But foes were many and friends but few;
Who shall guard that flag from stain? 
And calm ’mid confusion a voice rang clear,
“Adsum,—­I’m here!”

The slow weeks passed, and no succour came,
Famine and death were rife;
Yet still that banner of deathless fame,
Floated, unsullied by fear or shame,
Over the scene of strife;
And the voice,—­though weaker—­was full of cheer,
“Adsum,—­I’m here!”

Heaven send, that when many a heart’s dismayed,
In dark days yet in store,—­
Should foemen gather; or, faith betrayed,
The country call for a strong man’s aid
As she never called before,—­
A voice like his may make answer clear,
Banishing panic, and calming fear,
“Adsum,—­I’m here!”

THE FIGHT AT RORKE’S DRIFT

(January 23, 1879.)

BY EMILY PFEIFFER.

It was over at Isandula, the bloody work was done,
And the yet unburied dead looked up unblinking at the sun;
Eight hundred men of Britain’s best had signed with blood the story
Which England leaves to time, and lay there scanted e’en of glory.

Stewart Smith lay smiling by the gun he spiked before he died;
But gallant Gardner lived to write a warning and to ride
A race for England’s honour and to cross the Buffalo,
To bid them at Rorke’s Drift expect the coming of the foe.

That band of lusty British lads camped in the hostile land
Rose up upon the word with Chard and Bromhead to command;
An hour upon the foe that hardy race had barely won,
But in it all that men could do those British lads had done.