An’ touchin’ my ’at when we meet –
10
Me that ’ave been what I’ve been?
Me that ’ave watched ’arf a world
’Eave up all shiny with dew,
Kopje on kop to the sun,
An’ as soon as the mist let ’em through
15
Our ’elios winkin’ like fun –
Three sides of a ninety-mile square,
Over valleys as big as a shire –
‘Are ye there? Are ye there? Are ye there?’
An’ then the blind drum of our fire …
20
An’ I’m rollin’ ’is lawns for the Squire,
Me!
Me that ’ave rode through the dark
Forty miles, often, on end,
Along the Ma’ollisberg Range,
25
With only the stars for my mark
An’ only the night for my friend,
An’ things runnin’ off as you pass,
An’ things jumpin’ up in the grass,
An’ the silence, the shine an’ the size
30
Of the ’igh, unexpressible skies –
I am takin’ some letters almost
As much as a mile to the post,
An’ ‘mind you come back with the change!’
Me!
35
Me that saw Barberton took
When we dropped through the clouds on their ’ead,
An’ they ’ove the guns over and fled –
Me that was through Di’mond ’Ill,
An’ Pieters an’ Springs an’ Belfast –
40
From Dundee to Vereeniging all –
Me that stuck out to the last
(An’ five bloomin’ bars on my chest) –
I am doin’ my Sunday-school best,
By the ’elp of the Squire an’ ’is wife
45
(Not to mention the ’ousemaid an’ cook),
To come in an’ ’ands up an’ be still,
An’ honestly work for my bread,
My livin’ in that state of life
To which it shall please Gawd to call
50
Me!
Me that ’ave followed my trade
In the place where the Lightnin’s are made;
’Twixt the Rains an’ the Sun an’ the Moon –
Me that lay down an’ got up
55
Three years with the sky for my roof –
That ’ave ridden my ’unger an’ thirst
Six thousand raw mile on the hoof,
With the Vaal an’ the Orange for cup,
An’ the Brandwater Basin for dish, –
60
Oh! it’s ’ard to be’ave as they wish
(Too ’ard, an’ a little too soon),
I’ll ’ave to think over it first –
Me!
I will arise an’ get ’ence –
65
I will trek South an’ make sure
If it’s only my fancy or not
That the sunshine of England is pale,
An’ the breezes of England are stale,
An’ there’s somethin’ gone small with the lot.
70
For I know of a sun an’ a wind,
An’ some plains an’ a mountain be’ind,
An’ some graves by a barb-wire fence,
An’ a Dutchman I’ve fought ’oo might give
Me a job were I ever inclined
75
Where there’s neither a road nor a tree –
But only my Maker an’ me,
An’ I think it will kill me or cure,
So I think I will go there an’ see.
80
Me!
Lichtenberg
(NEW SOUTH WALES CONTINGENT)
Smells are surer than sounds or sights
To make your heart-strings crack –
They start those awful voices o’ nights
That whisper, ‘Old man, come back!’
5
That must be why the big things pass
And the little things remain,
Like the smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain.
There was some silly fire on the flank
10
And the small wet drizzling down –
There were the sold-out shops and the bank
And the wet, wide-open town;
And we were doing escort-duty
To somebody’s baggage-train,
15
And I smelt wattle by Lichtenberg –
Riding in, in the rain.
It was all Australia to me –
All I had found or missed:
Every face I was crazy to see,
20
And every woman I’d kissed;
All that I shouldn’t ha’ done, God knows!
(As He knows I’ll do it again),
That smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain!
25
And I saw Sydney the same as ever,
The picnics and brass bands;
And my little homestead on Hunter River
And my new vines joining hands.
It all came over me in one act
30
Quick as a shot through the brain –
With the smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain.
I have forgotten a hundred fights,
But one I shall not forget –
35
With the raindrops bunging up my sights
And my eyes bunged up with wet;
And through the crack and the stink of the cordite,
(Ah, Christ! My country again!)
The smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
40
Riding in, in the rain!
Stellenbosch
(COMPOSITE COLUMNS)
The General ’eard the firin’ on the flank,
An’ ’e sent a mounted man to bring ’im back
The silly, pushin’ person’s name an’ rank
’Oo’d dared to answer Brother Boer’s attack:
5
For there might ’ave been a serious engagement,
An’ ’e might ’ave wasted ’alf a dozen men;
So ’e ordered ’im to stop ’is operations round the kopjes,
An’ ’e told ’im off before the Staff at ten!
An’ it all goes into the laundry,
10
But it never comes out in the wash,
’Ow we’re sugared about by the old men
(’Eavy-sterned amateur old men!)
That ’amper an’ ’inder an’ scold men
For fear o’ Stellenbosch!
15
The General ’ad ‘produced a great effect,’
The General ’ad the country cleared – almost;
The General ‘’ad no reason to expect,’
An’ the Boers ’ad us bloomin’ well on toast!
20
Instead o’ sittin’ down an’ takin’ root;
But we was not allowed, so the Boojers scooped the crowd,
To the last survivin’ bandolier an’ boot.
The General saw the farm’ouse in ’is rear,
With its stoep so nicely shaded from the sun;
25
Sez ’e, ‘I’ll pitch my tabernacle ’ere,’
An’ ’e kept us muckin’ round till ’e ’ad done.
For ’e might ’ave caught the confluent pneumonia
From sleepin’ in his gaiters in the dew;
So ’e took a book an’ dozed while the other columns closed,
30
An’ De Wet’s commando out an’ trickled through!
The General saw the
mountain-range ahead,
With their ’elios showin’ saucy on the ’eight,
So ’e ’eld us to the level ground instead,
An’ telegraphed the Boojers wouldn’t fight.
35
For ’e might ’ave gone an’ sprayed ’em with a pompom,
Or ’e might ’ave slung a squadron out to see –
But ’e wasn’t takin’ chances in them ’igh and ’ostile kranzes –
He was markin’ time to earn a K.C.B.
The General got ’is decorations thick
40
(The men that backed ’is lies could not complain),
The Staff ’ad D.S.O.’s till we was sick,
An’ the soldier – ’ad the work to do again!
For ’e might ’ave known the District was an ’otbed,
Instead of ’andin’ over, upside-down,
45
To a man ’oo ’ad to fight ’alf a year to put it right,
While the General sat an’ slandered ’im in town!
An’ it all went into the laundry,
But it never came out in the wash.
We were sugared about by the old men
50
(Panicky, perishin’ old men)
That ’amper an’ ’inder an’ scold men
For fear o’ Stellenbosch!
Harp Song of the Dane Women
What is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
She has no house to lay a guest in –
5
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.
She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you –
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.
10
Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken –
Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters, –
And steal away to the lapping waters,
15
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.
You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables –
To pitch her sides and go over her cables.
Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow,
20
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.
Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
‘Rimini’
(MARCHING SONG OF A ROMAN LEGION OF THE LATER EMPIRE)
When I left Rome for Lalage’s sake,
By the Legions’ Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With me and my shield to Rimini –
5
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini –)
And I’ve tramped Britain, and I’ve tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage –
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
10
And I’ve lost Britain, and I’ve lost Gaul,
And I’ve lost Rome and, worst of all,
I’ve lost Lalage!
When you go by the Via Aurelia,
As thousands have travelled before,
15
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw Rome any more!
Oh, dear was the sweetheart that kissed him,
And dear was the mother that bore;
But his shield was picked up in the heather,
20
And he never saw Rome any more!
And he left Rome, etc.
When you go by the Via Aurelia
That runs from the City to Gaul,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
25
Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the sword and the buckler,
He mounted his guard on the Wall,
Till the Legions elected him Caesar,
And he rose to be master of all!
30
And he left Rome, etc.
It’s twenty-five marches to Narbo,
It’s forty-five more up the Rhone,
And the end may be death in the heather
Or life on an Emperor’s throne.
35
But whether the Eagles obey us,
Or we go to the Ravens – alone,
I’d sooner be Lalage’s lover
Than sit on an Emperor’s throne!
We’ve all left Rome for Lalage’s sake, etc.
Prophets at Home
Prophets have honour all over the Earth,
Except in the village where they were born,
Where such as knew them boys from birth
Nature-ally hold ’em in scorn.
5
When Prophets are naughty and young and vain,
They make a won’erful grievance of it;
(You can see by their writings how they complain),
But Oh, ’tis won’erful good for the Prophet!
There’s nothing Nineveh Town can give
10
(Nor being swallowed by whales between),
Makes up for the place where a man’s folk live,
Which don’t care nothing what he has been.
He might ha’ been that, or he might ha’ been this,
But they love and they hate him for what he is.
A Smuggler’s Song
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,
Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
5
Five-and-twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark –
Brandy for the parson,
’Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
10
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don’t you shout to come and look, nor use ’em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again – and they’ll be gone next day!
15
If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining’s wet and warm – don’t you ask no more!