Isandlwana
Scarlet
coats,
and
crash
o'
the
band,
The
grey
of
a
pauper's
gown,
A
soldier's
grave
in
Zululand,
And
a
woman
in
Brecon
Town.
My
little
lad
for
a
soldier
boy,
(Mothers
o'
Brecon
Town!)
My
eyes
for
tears
and
his
for
joy
When
he
went
from
Brecon
Town,
His
for
the
flags
and
the
gallant
sights
His
for
the
medals
and
his
for
the
fights,
And
mine
for
the
dreary,
rainy
nights
At
home
in
Brecon
Town.
They
say
he's
laid
beneath
a
tree,
(Come
back
to
Brecon
Town!)
Shouldn't
I
know?
—
I
was
there
to
see:
(It's
far
to
Brecon
Town!)
It's
me
that
keeps
it
trim
and
drest
With
a
briar
there
and
a
rose
by
his
breast
—
The
English
flowers
he
likes
the
best
That
I
bring
from
Brecon
Town.
And
I
sit
beside
him
—
him
and
me,
(We're
back
to
Brecon
Town.)
To
talk
of
the
things
that
used
to
be
(Grey
ghosts
of
Brecon
Town);
I
know
the
look
o'
the
land
and
sky,
And
the
bird
that
builds
in
the
tree
near
by,
And
times
I
hear
the
jackals
cry,
And
me
in
Brecon
Town.
Golden
grey
on
miles
of
sand
The
dawn
comes
creeping
down;
It's
day
in
far
off
Zululand
And
night
in
Brecon
Town.
