John F. McCullagh
The Eleven - Poem by John F. McCullagh
Their leader was incompetent,
well-meaning but untried.
He lead his men into a trap
Then fled and let them die.
The Indian and British troops
Were outnumbered by Khan's men
When their artillery was silenced
It was clear how it would end.
The soldiers of the Sixty Sixth
fought gallantly to the death.
When they turned to make their final stand
There were eleven left.
With sword and lance and cartridge
They battled hopeless odds.
On the dusty plain of Maiwand
They would, shortly, meet their God.
When their ammo was exhausted
They decided steel would do.
They charged then, in the face of death.
those men, so proud, too few.
When the last of them lay in the dust
having fought to their last breath.
The Khan himself paid them respect
For they had earned their rest..
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