12.04.2012, 09:54
John Nicholson
Reckless and grim, for he was at their head,
His fighters scaled and stormed the gates of hell,
But still from mosque and bastion thundered shell,
Volleyed red grape and shrapnel swift and dread:
Yet on where none might live their hero led,
On down the lane of death, till the quick spell
Of terror caught his comrades as he fell -
India was won: but he, their lord, was dead.
High in the Cutthroat Pass the pilgrim drinks
Of yon fair fountain 'neath Margalla's crest,
Holy to him on whom none cried in vain
For peace or vengeance: ay and still, methinks,
The reiver hears throughout his broken rest
The swift and terrible feet of Nikalsain.
Reckless and grim, for he was at their head,
His fighters scaled and stormed the gates of hell,
But still from mosque and bastion thundered shell,
Volleyed red grape and shrapnel swift and dread:
Yet on where none might live their hero led,
On down the lane of death, till the quick spell
Of terror caught his comrades as he fell -
India was won: but he, their lord, was dead.
High in the Cutthroat Pass the pilgrim drinks
Of yon fair fountain 'neath Margalla's crest,
Holy to him on whom none cried in vain
For peace or vengeance: ay and still, methinks,
The reiver hears throughout his broken rest
The swift and terrible feet of Nikalsain.