LETS MAKE A NAME FOR OURSELVES.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVIII, Issue 9, 1 March 1900, Page 6

LETS MAKE A NAME FO R OURS ELVES.

The report (says a London paper, December MY) has been confirmed that the Dublin Fusilieis succeeded in crossing the Tugela ■and efftctinga foothold on the Boer side of the river. But, support failing them, they were withdrawn. The bodies of several of those dapper little Dubliners have be^n found in the historic stream. The cortespondent of the Daily Mail, describing the fight, in which the Dubhner.s were foremost, says they were surprised when, on reaching the bank, a storm of bullets greeted them from Boers entrenched at a distance of only 2on yards. The men returned the fire, but, though they fought bravely, they were handicapped by not being able lv see thtii ad \ l i\->arie M and a retirement was ordered. The correspondent adds . •.lust pieviously the Dublin Fus-illcro had been preparing for fi bayonet charge, the men standing up to inspire each other with conli lenee, and shouting. " Let's make a name for ourselves." As to the liish in the war and their conspicuous valour, we take the following from the II <••>/ iiun^ft r (ia:ttt< — ■In looking through the long list of brave men who fell wounded in the Tugela battle, one will be struck, not only with the losses suffered by the Irish regiments, but by the number of Irish names in the English and Scotch battalions. The bravery of our Irish soldiers was conspicuously displayed in last Friday's battle. '• Let's make a name for ourselves ' was the cry that came from the ranks of the Dublin Fusiliers as they dashed through the " torrent of lead," . A Wexford rhymer, who modestly signs himself the 'Poet Laureate of Bridgetown," elaborates some verses upon incidents of the war. Ah is often the case in Irish affairs, the comic and the tragic are so blended as to be indissoluble. The following is one verse of rhythmical dialogue between a Catholic chaplain and a woundeA Irish soldier —

' And what religion are you 7 ' Asked the priest in holy fear ; Then the soldier slowly murmured, ' I'm a Dublin Fusilier ! I was bick for want of fightin', But now I've got my fill, An", Father, kindly make my soul, f needn't make my will.'

We need not call attention to the vein of humour in the last line. Having no worldly goods to bequeath to any one. the making of wills does not trouble the last hours of the dying soldier.