Bobs" Of Kandahar

"The body of 'Bobs' then lay in state until five o'clock, when it was interred in a crypt near-by those containing the bodies of Nelson and Wellington." - Press Despatch.


    Who is he that cometh to join our mighty dead?
    Is it "Bobs" of Kandahar the Empire's armies led?
    Give him place, O Nation great! within your storied walls;
    Within our heart his name shall rest, his ashes in St. Paul's.
    Soldier of the Empire, Bobs of Kandahar!
    Lay him near the hero of glorious Trafalgar!
    Death has ta'en the shining sword he aye in duty drew;
    Lay him near the Iron Duke of fateful Waterloo!

    Soldier of the Empire, well thy work was done,
    Fit thy sun had setting within sound and roar of gun;
    Thy soul had vision of the years fraught with danger's woe,
    And counsell'd arméd wisdom against a subtle foe;
    Now thy task has ended, the splendor of thy sun,
    Sheds its setting glory on the greater life begun,
    From where the Maple stands in pride to India's torrid star,
    Now, mourn an Empire's people for "Bobs" of Kandahar!

    For Lady Aileen Mary Roberts.

Thomas O'Hagan

Thomas O'Hagan was a Canadian poet and essayist born on March 6, 1855, in Toronto, Ontario. He was noted for his contributions to Canadian literature and his involvement in educational initiatives. His works often reflected themes of Irish heritage and identity. O'Hagan's dedication to literature and education earned him a distinguished place in Canada's cultural history. He passed away on March 1, 1939.

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English

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Bobs

[Field Marshal Lord Roberts of Kandahar]

There's a little red-faced man,
Which is Bobs,
Rides the talliest 'orse 'e can,
Our Bobs.
If it bucks or kicks or rears,
'E can sit for twenty years
With a smile round both 'is ears,
Can't yer, Bobs?

Then 'ere's to Bobs Bahadur, little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
'E's our pukka Kandaharder,
Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
'E's the Dook of Aggy Chel;
'E's the man that done us well,
An' we'll follow 'im to 'ell,
Won't we, Bobs?


If a limber's slipped a trace,
'Ook on Bobs.
If a marker's lost 'is place,
Dress by Bobs.
For 'e's eyes all up 'is coat,
An'a a bugle in 'is throat,
An'you will not play the goat
Under Bobs.

'E's a little down on drink
Chaplain Bobs;
...

Rudyard

Fighting Mac" A Life Tragedy

A pistol-shot rings round and round the world:
In pitiful defeat a warrior lies.
A last defiance to dark Death is hurled,
A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies.
Alone he falls with wide, wan, woeful eyes:
Eyes that could smile at death - could not face shame.

Alone, alone he paced his narrow room,
In the bright sunshine of that Paris day;
Saw in his thought the awful hand of doom;
Saw in his dream his glory pass away;
Tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray:
"O God! who made me, give me strength to face
The spectre of this bitter, black disgrace."

*    *    *    *    *

The burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen,
The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door;
He sees himself a barefoot boy again,
Bending o'er page of legenda...

Robert William Service

Death Of Sir John.

What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
And he is dead, the vigorous chieftain dead?
Nor e'en for him would death still brook to-morrow?
No more shall followers vaunt and foemen dread;
No more by him the hot debate be led;
No more the lively tale, the clever jest
Of him the State's most skilful, ablest head,
Albeit not her sternest, not her best,
But such is over now, then let his ashes rest.

When all was anarchy, he seized the reins,
And broke and trained the fiery coursers young,
And from so many wide and fair domains
One great Dominion 'neath his guidance sprung,
Which he made glorious, till the nations rung
With our renown and his immortal name.
But now his day was o'er; his work was done.
'Twas well. - He lived to hear his land's acclaim,

W. M. MacKeracher

Lord Roberts

He passed in the very battle-smoke
Of the war that he had descried.
Three hundred mile of cannon spoke
When the Master-Gunner died.

He passed to the very sound of the guns;
But, before his eye grew dim,
He had seen the faces of the sons
Whose sires had served with him,

He had touched their sword-hilts and greeted
With the old sure word of praise;
And there was virtue in touch and speech
As it had been in old days.

So he dismissed them and took his rest,
And the steadfast spirit went forth
Between the adoring East and West
And the tireless guns of the North.

Clean, simple, valiant, well-beloved,
Flawless in faith and fame,
Whom neither ease nor honours moved
An hair's-breadth from his aim.

Never again the war-wi...

Rudyard

Our Heroic Dead.

I.

A King once said of a Prince struck down,
"Taller he seems in death."
And this speech holds truth, for now as then
'Tis after death that we measure men,
And as mists of the past are rolled away
Our heroes, who died in their tattered grey,
Grow "taller" and greater in all their parts
Till they fill our minds as they fill our hearts.
And for those who lament them there's this relief -
That Glory sits by the side of Grief,
Yes, they grow "taller" as the years pass by
And the World learns how they could do and die.


II.

A Nation respects them. The East and West,
The far-off slope of the Golden Coast,
The stricken South and the North agree
That the heroes who died for you and me -
Each valiant man, in his own degree,
Whether...

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Last Words. Napoleon and Wellington

NAPOLEON.

Is it this, then, O world-warrior,
That, exulting, through the folds
Of the dark and cloudy barrier
Thine enfranchised eye beholds?
Is, when blessed hands relieve thee
From the gross and mortal clay,
This the heaven that should receive thee?
                Tête darmée.

Now the final link is breaking,
Of the fierce, corroding chain,
And the ships, their watch forsaking,
Bid the seas no more detain,
Whither is it, freed and risen,
The pure spirit seeks away,
Quits for what the weary prison?
                Tête darmée.

Doubtless angels, hovering oer thee
In thine exiles sad abode,
Marshalled even now before thee,
Move upon that chosen road!
Thither they, ere friends have laid thee
Where sad willo...

Arthur Hugh Clough