The Crimson Thread (1824–1902)

[Verse 1] From Balaklava’s frozen schiltron line, To Lucknow’s walls where the sepoy stars shine, We marched wi’ trews stained in Crimean mud, Pibroch and Enfield baptized in blood. “*Fix bayonets, lads—the Queen’s Own won’t budge!*” A sergeant’s snarl, a subaltern’s nudge. [Chorus] Oh, thread the Red Hackle through empire’s fray— Sudan’s sand, Transvaal’s lead-laced day. No grave deep enough, no kilt’s fold so wide, To hold the 42nd’s unbroken pride. [Verse 2] At Kirbekan, the Ansar’s spear met bone, Travers fell where the Nile choked on stone. Magersfontein’s night—Mauser’s hail, no moon, Three hundred lads gone ‘fore we heard the bugle’s tune. “*Lamh Dearg!*” we roared, but the veld laughed cold: “Ye’re ghosts ‘fore breakfast in this Boer-dug hold.*” [Chorus] Oh, thread the Red Hackle through empire’s fray— Sudan’s sand, Transvaal’s lead-laced day. No grave deep enough, no kilt’s fold so wide, To hold the 42nd’s unbroken pride. [Bridge] They’ll toast Wauchope’s ghost in Edinburgh’s halls, But ask the Modder’s silt where the real honor falls. Cameron saved, Gardner’s blade in the sand— Empires fade, but a regiment’s hand… [whispers] *…stains the colours deeper than the Victoria’s brand.* [Outro] So raise a glass to the heather’s ghost, To the Fuzzy’s spear, the Boer’s grim post. From Crimea’s chill to Khedive’s sun, The Black Watch lives where the crimson’s spun.