Then the grey dawning came, the oxen lowed to the light, the regiments arose from their bed of spears; they sprang up and shook the dew from hair and shield--yes! they arose! the glad to die! The impi assumed its array regiment by regiment.
There was the breast of spears, there were the horns of spears, they were numberless as the stars, and like the stars they shone.

The morning breeze came up and fanned them, their plumes bent in the breeze; like a plain of seeding grass they bent, the plumes of the soldiers ripe for the assegai.

Up over the shoulder of the hill came the sun of Slaughter; it glowed red upon the red shields, red grew the place of killing; the white plumes of the chiefs were dipped in the blood of heaven.

They knew it; they saw the omen of death, and, ah! they laughed in the joy of the waking of battle.

What was death?
Was it not well to die on the spear?
What was death?
Was it not well to die for the king?
Death was the arms of Victory.