Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, October 5th 1895

NOT a shot was heard, not a stroke we smote, As we trod our home-journey unhurried. The papers about us wrote thundering rot, But Sir ROBERT kept cool and unflurried.

We'd had heat to encounter, and frost to fight, Alternately freezing and burning, And now UMRA KHAN and his hordes put to flight; We were quietly homeward returning.

Through the Malakand Pass we as conquerors pressed, And had vanquished the foe where we found him. Now, the garrison rescued, the wrong redressed, Low retired, with his thousands around him.

Few and short are the words he has said, From palaver no aid did he borrow; But many a face at their hearing flushed red, As will millions of others to-morrow.

Six months of hard struggle for heart, hand, and head, Rough plodding, and comfortless pillow. Now the foe and the native would stay our home-tread; There's news to despatch o'er the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the deeds we have done, And, some of them, coldly upbraid us. But little we'll reck if JOHN BULL will read on The tribute Sir ROBERT has paid us.

But half of our heavy task was through When Low passed the word for retiring; But the Fifteen Thousand in form withdrew Though without any fighting or firing.

We do not much care if we don't win renown, Nor shine over brightly in story; We ask not a line--we crave not a stone, But we leave dear Old England the glory.