Part 8
Oh! give me back my “salted” steed, They said, he would not die, They said of stable I’d no need, But told a dreadful lie. I let him out one moonlight night-- Upon the grass he fed-- And in the morning, cruel sight! My salted steed was DEAD.
I bought him with a good “Bewijs,” And thought to get my geld-- So wrote a letter in a trice, And sent it through the veld; But when the man who sold him came And opened his inside-- He said the “paapjes” were to blame, And that was how he died!
I’ve had a dozen steeds or more, Since that eventful day; But no more “salted” ones, be sure-- That sort of thing don’t pay, For if a charger’s worth a sou, He’s worth his feed, I swear: And should he live, I laugh, don’t you? And should he die, don’t care.
_A. Brodrick._
TRANSVAAL.
_A ROMANCE FROM THE FIELDS._
A COLONIAL BALLAD.
“How be I getting along, sir? Why, thankee, I can’t complain; The taties and crops looks splendid, Since we got that there last rain: The cattle and birds does middling, The missus and children’s well, And the future looks bright and cheery, So far as I can tell.
“I look like a Dutchman, do I? With them feathers in my hat! Well p’r’aps they’re a trifle gaudy, But I’ll wear ’em ’spite of that. My ‘talisman’ I calls ’em, for They came off a wondrous bird, That completely changed our fortunes: ’Tis the strangest tale you’ve heard.
“Afore you left for England, You may mind I went to the Fields; I was nigh played out with farming, And read of the thumping yields Them diamond claims was giving, so Resolved my luck to try,-- The drought and cruel lungsick Had bothered us proper_ly_.
“I got what I could together, And we started right ahead; Missus and me and Bill here, With two little gals as is dead. I didn’t do much at digging, But money could then be earned By any willing fellow Who to work in earnest turned.
“Wages was high, and I prospered, Till fever came to the place, And I was unable to work, sir, And our children drooped apace. ’Twas a sad time, I can tell you, And oft should we have starved, But a neighbour--he’d been a sailor-- His substance with us halved.
“Good? I should say that he _was_ good, A thorough kind-hearted brick-- Poor fellow! before very long though, He himself fell sorely sick. My wife did all she could, kind soul, And nursed him night and day; But with me and the children poorly, She’d a hardish part to play.
“Poor Jim didn’t get no better, And it seems made up his mind, As how he must die at the Fields, sir, And all he’d to leave behind Would ’queath to my missus, who always Had been his kindest friend-- ’Twasn’t _much_, for things were dear then, And his coin had come to an end.
“Well! all there was he made over, Then poor Jim was laid to rest-- We got his watch and knicknacks, But what the wife liked best Was a couple of Dorking hens, sir, And a fine young Spanish cock; Quite right, sir, them’s the feathers, That I fear give you a shock.
“The missus was fond of poultry, And was pleased with what we’d got; But hunger is hard to bear, sir, So the birds came to the pot. Our little gals lay a dying, And food we all must have, So one by one the fowls were killed, But our bairns we could not save.
“The young cock’s turn came last, but To kill him we all were loth; But Billy and me in the fever lay, So the wife made us some broth. And now was the strangest thing, for when That bird was drawn, his crop Contained--well, guess?--I assure you, My wife was fit to drop.
“A diamond? Yes! a brilliant, Without a fault or flaw, As good a gem, for its size, you know, As ever merchant saw. Four hundred pounds we sold it for, And we bought shares in a claim That doubled soon the sum we had: Don’t that _bird_ deserve some fame?
“Thank God, the fever left us, Little Billy was first to mend; And after a while I got stronger, And could to work attend. But we’d all had enough of the Fields, sir, And longed to come back home; To settle down in the dear old place, Nor want again to roam.
“I look like a Dutchman, do I? Well! all that we have we owe To that young bird, I reckon; And my gratitude I shall show. I shall sport his blue-black plumes then, For it does not oft betide, When killing a fowl to cook, you find A _plum_ in his inside.”
_C. F. Overton._
[Illustration]
_THE FLIGHT OF THE AMAKOSA._
A RIFLE CORPS LEGEND.
It’s the hour of the morn When he who’s not born With a silver spoon ready-made for him, will scorn To muddle his head By lying in bed, But jumps into a tub of cold water instead; Which disperses each dream, And gets up his steam, And makes him as fresh as new butter and cream; Drives off sleep’s dizziness, Fits him for business, Screws up his system, And seems to assist him To follow whatever employments enlist him.
In short, it’s the hour when the whole _Ville du Cap_ (As the Frenchmen call Cape Town) wakes up from its nap And prepares for its trade, its profession or craft, as Labourer, lawyer, or dealer in baftas.
But every one knows That although _l’homme propose_, It isn’t in mortals themselves to “dispose,” For that is undoubtedly _toute autre chose_-- Or to speak in plain English, when plain English suits-- A pair of decidedly different boots.
And so on this day Quite a different way Of spending its time--neither work nor yet play-- From what Cape Town chalked out When first it had walked out That morning, it found in its destiny lay. For Brown, Jones, and Robinson, Thomson, Smith, Russel, And Jack, Tom, and Harry, are all in a bustle, Crying, “Holloa! what now? What’s the news? what’s the row? What the deuce can the matter be? What can the clatter be?” Kafirs escaped from the Amsterdam Battery!
It’s really true: And one looks blue And another knows hardly what to do: Some stare, and some Look shockingly glum, While others declare it’s “remarkably rum.” “Why don’t they bring Inspector King, And his blue-coat ‘peelers?’--that’s the thing?” While others shout, “What are they about? Why don’t they call the artillery out?” But voices are drowned By a martial sound That all on a sudden rings out around; And each who hears Cries out, “Three cheers! It’s the bugle-call of the Volunteers!”
Over the chimney-pots, over the tiles, Over the gardens, two square miles, Float the sounds of that warlike blast, Proclaiming approaching relief at last. Doubt has fled, Fear hides its head, And curiosity reigns instead.
* * * * *
In the square of the Church there’s a hubbub and fluster, In the square of the Church the brave warriors muster-- Cavalry warriors armed, spurred, and booted, With white-covered caps for the atmosphere suited, Jackets of blue, rather short in the waist, Garnished with silver in beautiful taste, Trousers of blue with a broad silver border And very long swords of the steel-scabbard order. One by one, To see the fun The citizens into the Church square run, And then they gaze In delighted amaze At the gallant scene the square displays, As the warriors gather by twos and threes Beneath the shadow of two small trees, Twirling mustachios in solemn monotony-- Excepting the captain, who hasn’t yet got any, While a few little boys Are making a noise And shouting, “Oh my! Here comes a guy! Oh come and look at this rummy fella A riding up with his umberella!” And truth to confess, It _did_ look a mess, As a hero rode up on his gallant Black Bess, And while he wore His costume _du corps_, In his hand a white-covered umbrella he bore.
The muster’s complete, Each man’s in his seat, Ready to do any desperate feat. The captain springs To his saddle, and flings A look which alone attention brings; Ere he gives the word, And as soon as it’s heard, Not a limb but in discipline’s rule is stirred, And every one sees that those gaily clad men are all Ready to die at the word of their general. (I give him this title, for though it is true He’s a captain alone--of this rifle corps blue-- The intelligent reader will also discern he’s Her Majesty’s General--of the Attorneys.)
Away! list again to the trumpet, for hark! it Sounds gallantly out from the square of Greenmarket. Away! seek the steps of the classic Town Hall: See the infantry Rifles respond to the call, Officers, privates, and bandsmen, and all; All looking valiant, and all to a man Determined at least to be found in “the van.”
And now cavalry, infantry, all are assembled, And Greenmarket Square ’neath their tramp has trembled; And orders of all sorts on all sides are given, And spurs in the flanks of the chargers are driven-- “March!” “Forward!” Away! “Drive on, coachee!” all tell a Sad tale of what Horace calls _aspera bella_.
* * * * *
The way was long, the day was hot, The Rifles very warm had got; Their bright blue coats and silver gay Seemed to befit a cooler day; Their swords, their glory and their joy, Hung in their sheaths, a useless toy; The first of all the Rifles they Who rode forth to the Kafir fray. But, well-a-day! that luck was fled, No Kafirs were discoverèd: Though they, the bravest of their race, Longed to be with them face to face. No more with hopeful looks they glance, And spur their steeds to make them prance; But half their ardour, martial, gay, In perspiration melts away.
Yet now they make a gallant push, And bravely scour the scrubby bush. Woe to the foe that lurks within, While forward dashes headlong Glynn. Woe to the foe! “What’s that? Holloa! Somebody’s hiding there, I know. Huzzah! there he is, With his coal-black phiz, And his black woolly hair too all in a friz: Yield, villain! yield, or prepare to feel Two feet and a half of this trusty steel!”
The villian _has_ yielded--they’ve captured him, And they’ve tied up his wrists with a bit of a reim-- First fruits of the foray! oh, gallant Glynn, ’Tis thine the honour of war to win. But what’s that remark? Who talks of a lark? Do tell us, oh do, Is it really true? From trooper to trooper the sentence that’s _now_ heard, “The woolly head chap’s Mr. Somebody’s cowherd.” The gallant captain’s seen to smile, Gravely shakes his head awhile, Then, as he taps his sabre’s hilt, he Cries, “Let him go! he’s found ‘not guilty.’”
Forward again in the roasting sun, Horses and troopers, too, almost done, March forth the cavalry, one by one; And behind them the infantry’s green coats appear, For they’re still in “the van” though they’re still in the rear.
Forward they move, but alas! alas! Not a Kafir is seen through all the pass (Though Private Saunders has brought a glass). Camp’s Bay is reached, and each Rifleman’s breast At that moment a thrill of joy confest, As he gazed on the scene, and half-way up the hill he Perceived in the distance the round house of Tilley. And here awhile they rest from labour, Rifle cast aside and sabre; At the provisions do their worst, With beer and soda slake their thirst; But how they ate and how they drank, As if each throttle were a tank-- To tell all this my pen would fail; But even Porter turned to ale.
That night the warrior band returned, But though their hearts with valour burned, Not one his spurs as yet had earned. Though hands were firm and nerves unshaken, The Kafir foemen had saved their bacon, And (saving the cowboy) no prisoner was taken.
* * * * *
The shades of the night Had taken to flight, The sun gave out all his heat and light; When some one averred That some one had heard (Or perhaps had been told by some sharp little bird) That the fir-trees which grow In many a row, And make ’neath our mountain so pleasant a show, Concealed in their deepest and darkest recess The runaway Kafirs who’d made all this mess; To the terror and horror of those who lived near, And who hinted they just entertained the slight fear That between thirst and hunger--a terrible fix-- They might cut people’s throats as they’d cut their own sticks. Away at the word goes the valiant crew, Searching the fir forest right through and through: “Steady!” cries Captain T----, “steady, men, steady! Keep your eyes open--be silent and ready.”
Ha, ha, ha! there they go-- ’Tis the foe; ’tis the foe-- But still not an inch of their skins dare they show. Bang, bang! goes each gun: Helter skelter, too, run The Rifles, pursuing like mad or like fun-- When some one exultingly cries out “Here’s one!”
’Twas true! ’twas one! the ball had sped, And entered the dying wretch’s head; Forth from the wound the life-blood flowed, And, stretched in the warriors’ very road, A grisly baboon its carcase showed! And the Riflemen stared, Half puzzled, half scared, While a private coarsely remarked, “I’m blowed.” Thus the second day’s deeds to an end were brought, But somehow the Kafirs were _not_ yet caught.
* * * * *
How it turned out next day ’Twere not easy to say; But five gallant gentlemen happened to stray Through the woods for a search, and without any fuss, Which so often brings forth the _ridiculus mus_, Pounced right on the runaway Kafirs and bagged them-- That is, on fourteen (quite enough to have scragged them); And this feat all their comrades in arms pronounced lucky-- For my part, _I_ call it uncommonly “plucky.”
And thus ended the Rifle Corps Kafir campaign-- Whose like may the Rifle Corps ne’er see again, For they’d very much trouble and very small gain.
But Cape Town all felt that, with such an array Of valour to guard it by night and by day, It might sleep in its bed, And not trouble its head About Kafirs in prison, or Kafirs who’d fled. For myself I can vow, If there’s ever a row, I sha’n’t think a bit of the consequence now. For regular regiments I care not a rap: The Rifle Corps guards me, what _can_ spoil my nap?
_A. W. Cole._
[Illustration]
_AN IDYL OF A PRINCE._
(NOT AFTER TENNYSON.)
If ever by chance You should happen to glance At a map of the world, and should come upon France, Raise your eyes just a bit, un- Till you have hit on, An Island that’s known as the home of the Briton. Now, if it weren’t wrong To put faith in a song, You would find from a ditty, by one Mr. Campbell, That one fine day this island Arose, high and dry land, Right out of the sea--from no submarine gambol; But was turned out by order, Express to afford her Assistance to Neptune in ruling the ocean, Which may be the truth, or a mere poet’s notion.
Be this as it may-- And I don’t mean to say I have faith in the literal truth of the lay-- She _has_ ruled the ocean a pretty long while, and Is considered a bright little, tight little island;
And, as one thing to brag of, Possesses a flag of Such capital bunting, that one Thomas Dibdin Declared as a fact--and I don’t think he fibbed in The assertion, which every nation allows and hears-- It has braved war and tempest, unhurt, for a thousand years. And, in spite of the seas, Of the foes and the breeze, It’s as good at this moment as when they first made it,-- Spotless, untattered, and not a bit faded.
To cherish this standard She has fought, in each land, hard, But the sea, after all, has been ever her grand card; And the waves, as they roll From equator to pole, Bear fleets on their highway which never pay toll, Being franked by this banner, Which waves, in the manner I’ve mentioned before, all the breezes that fan her.
I think it an error, to fancy that history Ever records (when it’s truthful) a mystery. The eyes of a mole Can’t read a large scroll; They may pick out each letter, but don’t see the whole. The _qui currit potest_ Legere’s no test, As those who have dipped ’neath the surface must know best. So, though it seems queer To children who hear That the tight little island we’re writing of here Has contrived to get on with such brilliant successes,-- Adding conquest to conquest, until she possesses Much more than old Rome ever ventured to vote as Her provinces--see _orbs veteribus notus_-- Yet one who reflects On the matter, detects All the secret to lie in the fact of the ocean Receiving his child’s never-failing devotion,-- A devotion repaid By _his_ ne’er-failing aid, So that all the world over, From China to Dover, Her fleets defy foeman, and pirate, and rover, And her shores are as happy as cows are in clover.
Now let your eyes stray On the map, a long way From this tight little island, until they make play Over dreary hot lands Of deserts and sands, Where brave Captain Speke Has set off to seek For the source of the Nile, till you come, if you’ll follow me, To a country baptized with the name of Cape Colony. And you’ll find, near its south-western corner, stuck down At the foot of the mountain called Table, a town.
In this town, then, there dwell, As geographers tell, A great many people of all sorts of hues, Heathen, Mohammedans, Christians and Jews, Dutchmen and Englishmen, black Mozambiquas, Tawny Malays, and a sprinkling of Griquas, Hottentots, Kafirs, and Negroes and others, Who’d be puzzled to point out their fathers or mothers.
They say on the whole that the town’s rather pretty (By the way they’ve a bishop, so call it a city); But apt to be sleepy, and stagnant and dull, In a kind of perpetual calm, or a lull Of such very long lasting, that no one can form An idea of the time when it last had a storm. Now did you ever try on A slumbering lion (Of course safe in a cage, or fixed in the wrong hole) The experiment called stirring up with a long pole? First you tickle him gently, he stops in a snore, Then you pummel his ribs and he utters a roar.
Then you give it him harder--a bound and a shake, A jump at the bars which may well make you quake, Mane and tail up on end--and the lion’s awake. Just so they relate How this city of late, Being sleepy and slow as a solemn debate, Was aroused from repose By a fly on its nose, In the shape of a rumour disturbing its doze. The rumour then spread, and the faster it flew, The more evident was it the rumour was true. The city jumped up from its very long snooze, Threw its nightcap aside, donned its small clothes and shoes, And was more wide-awake than’t has ever been since It was built--for till now it ne’er welcomed a Prince! A Prince, then, was coming--a Prince of Blood Royal-- The son of a Queen to whom every one’s loyal; A Prince, too, who wears the triumphant blue jacket, To guard from affronting That famed bit of bunting, And pitch into the foe who shall dare to attack it.
A long while the city remained in suspense, Hopeful, but fidgety, making pretence Of not being excited, But looking delighted, As a boy newly breeched, or a cit newly knighted. Grand preparations For illuminations. Fêtes and regattas, and balls and reviews, Ev’ry one asking, “Well, what’s the last news?”
Ladies all crowding, besieging the shops, Buying dresses so grand that their brilliancy whops (As Jonathan says) all description, and gloves And wreaths that they fondly pronounce “perfect loves,” And lace-bordered lawn for each sweet little nose, And the finest of pinky-white gauzy silk hose, And white satin shoes for their dear little toes.
Volunteers, too, Green, scarlet, and blue, Furbish their uniforms up to look new, Polish up bayonets, rifles, and sabres, Looking forward with pride to their arduous labours, And twist their moustaches with pleasure prophetic Of how they will look--with the aid of cosmetic.
All things have an end, as experience teaches (Except crinoline, p’raps, or Upper House speeches); So at length the suspense was all over--at last The season of mere expectation was past, And in Simon’s Bay, No very great way From the city, all snug, the _Euryalus_ lay. In Adderley Street Citizens meet, Staring at telegrams, hauling out flags, Stowed safely away in their canvas bags, Guessing to-morrow will be a grand holiday, Vowing they’ll try, too, to make it a jolly day. Cabmen and coolies, Whose general rule is To get in the way when they’ve got nothing to do, Assemble in groups At street-corners or stoeps, And stop up the road when you try to get through. And little black boys Kick up a noise By way of evincing their innocent joys.
* * * * *
The morrow came, up rose the sun, And who hath seen a brighter one? No cloud to obscure a single ray, A clear, warm, brilliant summer’s day. A day right worthy of its scene, A people’s homage to their Queen, In hailing with their heartfelt joy Her darling child--her sailor boy! The morrow has come; Trumpet and drum, Streamers and pennants, Houses empty of tenants, Cannon and bells,-- Everything tells Of a day that’s begun Of rejoicing and fun. The city’s awake now, as sure as a gun, And looks almost as bright as that glorious sun.
It’s past half-past one, and it’s drawing near two-- The hour he’s to come, if the programme speak true. Chevalier Duprat, with his stout bombardiers, Is preparing salutes to astonish our ears. The Rifle Corps, too, with their dark-green and black, Looking regular heroes, and shooters called “crack,” With their soldier-like colonel--right man in the right place, Though the steed that he rides isn’t such as he _might_ grace-- Line the streets in full force, With also the horse, Than whom none would fight more-- The brave blue and white corps, With helmets of silver--such regular shiners-- And the scarlet and gold of the sappers-and-miners. And last, but not least, with their breeks in zigzag stripes, The gallant Scotch corps, with their capital bagpipes. To these add the regulars--regular bricks-- The brave Fifty-ninth, with its flag inscribed LIX. (And so it does everything--pardon the pun, Its atrociously bad, but it’s true as the sun.)
At length one hears, From the bombardiers, The banging of cannon, which serves for their cheers; And the Prince with his retinue really appears Over Castle-bridge, past Caledon Square, Of all, save stones and mud-holes, bare. Beside the parade, with its stunted firs, Which scarcely the sign of a breeze now stirs, Through a street where the breeze pretty frequently plays her part, Now known as Darling Street--_ci-devant_ Keizersgracht.