Of the great heroic actions in the distant days of glory
There is one that makes the most downcast of weary spirits lift
So, settle back and listen, whilst I tell the wondrous story
Of the men who fought the Zulus at a mission called Rorke’s Drift.

Cetewayo, King of Zulus, had been tussling with the Boers
For he claimed that the Transvaal was all a part of Zululand,
But what began with disputations, soon developed into wars
And the British sent an army out to lend the Boers a hand.

Chelmsford led three British columns to uphold the Boer cause
And one was camped upon the slopes beside Isandhlwana.
There the Zulus fell upon them with an overwhelming force
And slaughtered them entirely in a swift and dreadful manner!

At the Rorke’s Drift river crossing stood a tiny Swedish mission,
A place well nigh abandoned, but by troops now occupied.
They were there to guard the crossing and defend the key position,
But since their job was boring, the men loafed around and sighed.

Now, this troop of men consisted of a trifling eighty-four
Of the 24th of Foot, most of them Welshmen, all tough and hard.
These sturdy South Wales Borderers, who found the job a bore,
Where the charge of two lieutenants; Mr. Bromhead, Mr. Chard.

In addition to its function as a guard post for the crossing,
The mission was a supply dump and an ammunition store.
It was also a field hospital where fevered men lay tossing
In an Army surgeon’s care amidst conditions hot and poor.

Now Chard had been seconded from the Engineering Corps
To construct a pontoon ferry for the wagons and their steers.
He enlisted Bromhead’s soldiers to assist him with this chore,
Thus providing a diversion, for the troops were bored to tears.

From the mountainside above the post, a sentry’s shout was heard,
As two riders raced on whitely-foaming horses through the river
With the news about the Zulus and the troops they’d massacred –
And even down the bravest spines ran many an icy shiver!

At first Lieutenant Bromhead – who was Officer Commanding -
Thought grimly of withdrawing his detachment from the mission.
But Chard, who was the elder, was determined on them standing
At their post despite the fearful odds, and holding their position.

Whereat Bromhead conceded that his colleague should take charge,
And at once Chard called the ablest-bodied men out on parade.
"There are mealie-bags aplenty – there are wagons strong and large;
We’ll upend them - and with mealie-bags, we’ll build a barricade!"

The soldiers set to with a will and heaved the maize sacks out
Then they tipped each of the heavy wagons over on its side,
And, angled ‘twixt the buildings, next they built a large redoubt
From some wooden ration boxes that Chard’s eagle eye espied.

In the hospital, those patients who could move around had tried
To barricade each doorway and block up each window-space
With mattresses and bedding. And with their bayonets, they pried
The bed-boards off their bunks to hold the mattresses in place.

And now, with all in readiness, they had to wait and wonder,
Every man at his position, with his rifle, standing ground.
Then from the hills about, there came a noise of distant thunder,
Never ceasing, drawing nearer - a familiar chugging sound!

The men glanced at each other at this half-remembered noise
And from the barricade, a laughing Welsh voice loudly pealed,
"By Damn! I don’t believe it! That’s a railway engine, boys!"
But it wasn’t. What they really heard was assegai on shield!

The drumming sound grew closer - then it suddenly went still
As, at last, their dreaded foemen came forth clearly into view,
And in marshalled ranks, the Zulus lined the crest of every hill.
How could so many savage warriors be resisted by so few?

Now the leaders of each impi stood before their silent hundreds
With their arms raised high and chanting the warcry of "Usutu!"
And the hills reverberated when four thousand voices thundered
In response, and set hearts pounding in the tensely waiting few!

As the soldiers stood there staring and the mighty chant was spoken,
Up the river-bed in silence, there came creeping stealthy men,
Who sprang out to surprise them - but the spell by then was broken
And the Welshmen leapt to meet the foe and drove them back again.

Then as they stood there waiting for the enemy’s next sally,
A strong and clear Welsh tenor voice began to bravely sing.
A hundred Welsh throats joined it, and there echoed up the valley,
"Men of Harlech" - and their voices had a true and fearless ring!

Then the fight began in earnest, and the impis, now descending,
Faced, with flimsy ox-hide shields, a withering leaden fusillade.
As rifles cracked and spear blades flashed, the human tide unending
Smashed like waves upon the seashore of the makeshift barricade

And thus the fight continued, with the bodies mounting higher
As the Zulu warriors charged, retired, reformed and charged again.
The makeshift wall was weakening as the troops began to tire,
And Chard was forced to fall back and regroup his battered men.

From the mountainside above them came a rattling ragged volley
And spurts of dust began to spring up all around their weary feet.
For the Zulus had brought rifles from the scene of Chelmsford’s folly
Making Chard feel – with a shudder - premonitions of defeat!

Bromhead was severely wounded in the shoulder by a spear,
So was forced to totter bleeding to the surgeon, seeking aid,
But he found the office full of men with wounds far more severe,
And he marvelled at the fortitude the wounded men displayed.

The yard was now a struggling mass of men both black and white,
The crimson tunic bravely clashing ‘gainst spotted leopard skin,
And lighting up the darkening scene, the church-house, blazing bright
Showed that on the hospital’s thatched roof were Zulus breaking in!

The sick met them with their bayonets in the tiny smoked filled ward,
And fought with strength that’s only borne of maddened bloody rage,
And young Private Joseph Williams slaughtered fourteen of the horde,
Before their spears spilled out his blood on History’s glorious page!

In this dubious redoubt, Chard’s men had gathered worn and tired,
Formed in three ranks, they stood and kneeled, in volley-fire array.
Then each rank in turn, as ordered, fired, reloaded, aimed and fired,
Whilst the Elmorans they fired on, died in heaps, or crawled away!

The Zulu waves kept rolling in throughout that dreadful night
Which by the blazing roof-thatch was lit up as bright as morn,
Illuminating all the carnage with a ghastly, flickering light –
Then, as dawn started breaking - Lo! The savages were gone!

The defenders gaped about them through red, cordite-smarting eyes
At the bloodstained, corpse-strewn, smoke-enshrouded yard.
Then they stumbled from the redoubt too far gone to show surprise
That their foes had all retreated - after pressing them so hard!

Then a chant from up the hillside turned their weary hearts to stone
And on looking up again, they saw that same great Zulu horde.
And they knew that they were done for - all their ammunition gone,
But a Boer who stood beside them understood the Zulus’ word.

""Bayete!" is what they’re calling! They are saying they salute you!"
Yet the Welshmen clutched their rifles, and stood staring, doubting still,
Waiting for that fearsome war cry to ring forth again –"Usutu!"
But the warriors turned around and marched away across the hill!

Thus the mighty battle ended, and they totalled up their losses –
Seventeen Welshmen and four hundred Zulu warriors had died.
And for their wondrous deeds of valour, eleven Victoria Crosses
Were won at Rorke’s Drift Mission. Remember them with pride!

Bards sing paeans of Balaclava, and the glorious Light Brigade,
Of Waterloo and many other well known battles, great and gory,
But they rarely sing of Rorke’s Drift or the valour there displayed,
Let us hail those gallant Welshmen and their blazing day of glory!