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THE FIGHT AT DAJO
by Wood, Alfred D.

There are twenty dead who're sleeping near the slopes of Bud Dajo,
'Neath the shadow of the crater where the bolos laid them low,
And their comrades feel it bitter, and their cheeks grow hot with shame,
When they read the sneering comments
which have held them up to blame.
They were told to scale the mountain and they stormed its beetling crest,
Spite of all the frantic Moros, though they did their level best,
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Though the bullets whistled thickly, and the cliff was lined with foes,
Though the campilans were flashing and the kriss gave deadly blows.
There was little time for judging ere they met in deadly strife
What the sex might be that rushing waved aloft the blood-stained knife;
For the foe was drunk with frenzy and the women in the horde
Thought that paradise was certain could they kill first with the sword.
They'd been freely offered mercy, but they'd scorned the proffered gift,
For their priests had told them Allah promised victory sure and swift.
They were foolish and their folly cost the lives of wife and son,
But they fought their fight like heroes; there were none that turned to run.
Though they'd robbed and slain and ravaged, though their crimes had mounted high,
Though 'tis true that naught became them like the death they chose to die,
One would think to read the papers that the troops who scaled their fort
Were a lot of brutal ruffians shooting girls and babes for sport.
More than one who's sleeping soundly 'neath the shade of Bud Dajo
Lost his life while giving succor to the one who dealt the blow,
Yet his comrades feel more bitter and they give a far worse name
To the men who dubbed them "butchers" and have smirched the army's fame.
Alfred E. Wood.

Source: Project Gutenberg

Source: Project Gutenberg