Knotted close to his side,
Proudly lie on the quiet breast,
Washed in the crimson tide!
For the heart is silent forever,
Stirred by no flitting breath,
And the Colours he saved are a fitting shroud,
And meet for a soldier's death.

What more would they know in England?
The Colours were lost, they said;
And all the time they were safe, of course,
Though the soldier himself was dead.
The band was stiff, and the heart was cold
And feeble the stalwart limb;
But he was one of the Twenty-fourth,
So the Colours were safe with him.


The following which appeared in the Toronto _World_, Saturday,
July 16, 1887, will also be found of interest to those whose sympathies
have been awakened by the poem:

"NO LONGER THE TWENTY-FOURTH."

_How the Heroes of Isandklwana came to be called South Wales Borderers_.

"In the London _Graphic_ there have appeared lately several good
articles headed 'Types of the British Army,' with excellent full-sheet
coloured cuts, by eminent artists, of men in marching order or otherwise
belonging to the corps on which the article is written. The last one is