Along the valley where the Buffalo
Meanders, swollen river full and wide,
'In gloria Victoria' there go,
The scarlet columns, marching full of pride;
But sadly all, by nightfall, will have died.
Where will we then those fallen comrades find?
"Isandhlwana!" Sighs the searing wind.

Believing that no enemy is near,
They fail to picket high ground on their flanks;
So, when the white-shield warriors appear,
They face their front and quickly close their ranks,
But youths who'd crept beyond the river's banks,
Now, drumming on black shields, sweep in behind.
"Isandhlwana!" Throbs the thrumming wind.

There, bravely stood the twenty-fourth of foot,
A shrinking circle round their Colour drew,
For cartridges in sealed containers put
Caused them to struggle hard but open few.
Their ammunition plenty, well they knew
But could not reach. This lesson bear in mind:
"Isandhlwana!" Warns the wailing wind.

"Queen's Colour must not fall! Take it and ride!"
Lieutenant Merrill bore this precious load,
Brave Coghill to protect him by his side,
Through Zulu ranks to cross the stream they rode
But wounded, foundered; blood and waters flowed
As one, their battle lost, with Death entwined.
"Isandhlwana!" Cries the keening wind.