Part 1
THE
POETRY OF SOUTH AFRICA.
Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
THE POETRY
OF
SOUTH AFRICA
_COLLECTED AND ARRANGED_
BY
A. WILMOT
LONDON SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON CAPE TOWN J. C. JUTA & CO. 1887
PREFACE.
This collection of verse has been made from various sources in the Cape Colony, Natal, and the Transvaal, and it is a matter of regret that many pieces of interest have been omitted owing to the difficulty of obtaining copies. Also as most colonists in South Africa understand the Dutch language “as spoken there,” it could be wished that certain well-known productions in the “Boerentaal” could have been preserved in these pages. Some of the inimitable “versions” of Reitz,--for instance, his rendering of “Tam o’ Shanter” and “The Maid of Athens,” and some others which have appeared from time to time, we believe, in one of the Cape journals, ought not to be forgotten.
We have received from Natal, since this volume was “in the press,” some lines by the late T. Fannin, who used in the olden days to sing his own rhymes in right good style. We do not apologise to our readers for giving these in their entirety.
“THE SMOUSE.”
“I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse in the wilderness wide-- The veld is my home, and the wagon’s my pride; The crack of my “voerslag,” shall sound o’er the lea. I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free! I heed not the Governor, I fear not his law, I care not for ‘civilisation’ (?) one straw-- And ne’er to ‘Ompanda’--‘Umgazis’ I’ll throw, While my arm carries fist, or my foot bears a toe! ‘Trek,’ ‘trek,’ ply the whip,--touch the fore oxen’s skin, I’ll warrant we’ll ‘go it’ through thick and through thin-- ‘Loop! loop ye oud skellums! ot Vigmaan trek jy.’ I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!
They may talk of quick going by mail or by rail-- What matters? our wagon creeps on like a snail; What to ‘her’ is the steam-engine’s whistle and din? We have time all before, and the ‘prog’ all within-- The snows of Kathlamba our progress can’t stay; We mount to its summit, and travel away, Or go we by Biggarsberg--wagon upset, The tent lies in atoms, the stuff is all wet-- Never mind, that won’t hurt us--we’ll soon get it dry. But ho! there go Elands--saddle up, boys! mount! fly! Load your rifles, give chase as they bound o’er the lea-- I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!
I’m alone--I’m alone, and ’tis night on the plain-- And I think, as I lie, of old England again; The jackal cries round me, the wolf quits his lair, And the roar of the lion resounds through the air-- ‘Alamagtig!’ cries Jansi--‘Ma-wo!’ cries Kewitt; The cattle stand trembling--the Smouse on his feet. My ‘Lancaster’ rings, while the brute gives a bound, And the king of the desert lies dead on the ground! Hurrah! then, what care I for king or for prince? My horse and my gun are my pride and defence; The town for the coward--the desert for me! I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!”
All is changed since these lines were written, and since Pringle (the “father” of South African verse) “sang” amid the wild surroundings of his home. The whistle of the locomotive has taken the place of the shrill cry of the Kaffir. The lion has retired from business. The “big game” which used to cover the plains beyond the Drachensberg has gone, never to return; and the wandering trader has to pay taxes, and is no longer in need of a gun. The railway from Delagoa Bay to the Portuguese border is almost completed. Soon “excursions to Ophir” will be advertised, and the romance of the “Dark Continent” will be dead! There is little time for thought or rest in a country which can show a town risen up, as by Aladdin’s power, in a few short months, holding five thousand people, all gathered together for one object--gold.[1] Still, and in spite of all this, we hope our modest volume may not be wholly neglected, but will find a welcome in many a home. There must be “intervals for refreshment,” however transient, both for body and mind, even in a world where the “go as you please” race for wealth engages everybody, and we trust that many colonists will find something in these pages to satisfy their tastes even if it be only a reminder of the days when their fathers were young, and ventured over the sea to make for themselves homes in untrodden wilds.
B.
_24th September 1887._
CONTENTS.
.....PAGE
A Christmas Apparition....._Cole_.....166
Afar in the Desert....._Pringle_.....10
Afric’s Greeting....._Bidwell_.....240
After a Storm....._Watermeyer_.....120
Ammap and Griet....._S. A. M._.....120
Angel’s Message (The)....._Bidwell_.....249
Baron’s Adventure....._Brodrick_.....226
Beautiful Island of Dreams....._Wilmot_.....114
Bechuana Boy....._Pringle_.....4
Before Ulundi....._Brodrick_.....225
Be Kind to One Another....._Bidwell_.....260
Better Land (The)....._Brodrick_.....231
Brown Hunter’s Song....._Pringle_.....30
Burghers’ Gathering (The)....._Impey_.....187
Bushman (Song of the Wild)....._Pringle_.....25
Bushman (The).....“.....31
Caffer (The).....“.....32
Caffer Commando.....“.....42
Cape of Good Hope....._Thomson_.....115
Cape of Good Hope....._Selwyn_.....272
Cape of Storms....._Pringle_.....31
Captive of Camalu.....“.....27
Change....._Ochse_.....209
Churl of the Period....._Bidwell_.....252
Colours of the 1st-24th....._Dugmore_.....91
Contentment....._Ochse_.....203
Coranna (The)....._Pringle_.....24
Courtship (South African)....._Brodrick_.....227
Dear Old Land (The)....._Dugmore_.....55
Defenders of Glen Lynden.....“.....89
Desolate Valley (The)....._Pringle_.....22
Diamond Digger (The)....._Bidwell_.....242
Dives Redivivus....._Cruikshanks_.....186
“Dolly” (A Remembrance)....._Brodrick_.....232
Drink....._Wilmot_.....110
Drunkard’s Child (The)....._Bidwell_.....245
Emigrants (The)....._Pringle_.....1
Emigrant’s Cabin.....“.....48
Epitaph on a Diamond Digger....._Brodrick_.....239
Erythrina Tree (The)....._M. E. Barber_.....274
Evening Rambles....._Pringle_.....13
Eveleen....._C. P. M._.....126
Ezekiel xlvii......_Ochse_.....207
Faded Photograph (The)....._Longmore_.....124
Farewell to English Friends....._Dugmore_.....66
Farewell to Madeira....._Stirling_.....128
Farewell to Fifty-five....._Selwyn_.....130
Flight of the “Amakosa”....._Cole_.....146
Forester of the Neutral Ground....._Pringle_.....44
Freedom’s Home....._G. L._.....172
Funeral in the Abbey....._Dugmore_.....59
Ghona Widow’s Lullaby....._Pringle_.....33
Going Home....._Brodrick_.....234
Good Hope....._Thomson_.....117
Graaff Reinet (To)....._Selwyn_.....136
Heavenly Friendship....._Ochse_.....210
Horace (Ode from)....._Watermeyer_.....118
Hottentot (The)....._Pringle_.....32
Idyl of a Prince....._Cole_.....154
Incantation (The)....._Pringle_.....40
In the Drought Lands....._Wilmot_.....100
In Memoriam (Gordon)....._Brown_.....238
In Memoriam (Templeton)....._Selwyn_.....268
Kosa (The)....._Pringle_.....36
Lament on the Gutter, P. Elizabeth....._Selwyn_.....139
Landing of British Settlers, 1820....._Wilmot_.....101
Last of the Bowkers....._Bidwell_.....244
“Lead, Kindly Light”....._Selwyn_.....133
Lines in an Album....._Ochse_.....211
Lion and Giraffe....._Pringle_.....20
Lion Hunt.....“.....18
“Lord, what is Man?”....._Selwyn_.....269
Makanna’s Gathering....._Pringle_.....38
Mankoraan (in the Country of)....._Wilmot_.....109
Mission of the Sails....._Adamastor_.....237
Missionary’s Farewell....._Dugmore_.....67
Morning Wish for a Friend.....“.....85
Natal Diggings....._Moodie_.....191
Nature.....“.....192
“Not Here”....._Ochse_.....204
Night Thought....._Dugmore_.....86
Our Boys.....“.....95
Oxford Bible....._Marie_.....235
Ox Waggon (Rhyme of the)....._Selwyn_.....270
Paddy’s Love Symptoms....._Bidwell_.....261
Past and Present....._Dugmore_.....75
Platteklip Cascade....._B._.....265
Porter, Hon. W......_Cruikshanks_.....178
Port Elizabeth Pyramid....._Selwyn_.....266
Proverbial Philosophy....._Bidwell_.....262
Precepts for Young and Old.....“.....257
Reminiscence, 1820....._Dugmore_.....72
Revelation xxii......_Ochse_.....205
Robert Godlington....._Bidwell_.....241
Rock of Reconcilement....._Pringle_.....43
Romance from the “Fields”....._Overton_.....142
“Rorke’s Drift”....._Mitford_.....212
“Rorke’s Drift”....._Brodrick_.....223
Sails (The Worn Out)....._E. L. B._.....237
“Salted” Steed....._Brodrick_.....141
Settlers’ Jubilee (The)....._Cruikshanks_.....181
Shell at Cove Rock....._Dugmore_.....87
“Should it be according to Thy mind”....._Selwyn_.....134
Sight from the Shore....._Dugmore_.....82
Sonnets of the Cape....._Longmore_.....123
South Africa Rediviva....._Wilmot_.....113
Southern Cross....._Cruikshanks_.....176
Storm in Tugela Valley....._Moodie_.....190
Sunny Hills of Africa....._Hartwell_.....175
Sunrise at Cove Rock....._Dugmore_.....79
Sunset (An Ocean).....“.....81
“Teuton” (The Gallant)....._Hartwell_.....174
Thunderstorm....._Dugmore_.....82
Volunteers of England.....“.....53
Welcome....._Bidwell_.....256
Wilderness (S. African)....._Dugmore_.....77
Zulu War....._Selwyn_.....137
POEMS.
_THE EMIGRANTS._
... The sire has told The heart-struck group of dark disaster nigh: Their old paternal home must now be sold, And that last relic of ancestry Resigned to strangers. Long and strenuously He strove to stem the flood’s o’erwhelming mass; But still some fresh unseen calamity Burst like a foaming billow--till, alas! No hope remains that this their sorest grief may pass.
“Yet be not thus dismayed. Our altered lot He that ordains will brace us to endure. This changeful world affords no sheltered spot, Where man may count his frail possessions sure: Our better birthright, noble, precious, pure, May well console for earthly treasures marred,-- Treasures, alas! how vain and insecure, Where none from rust and robbery can guard: The wise man looks to heaven alone for his reward.”
The Christian father thus. But whither now Shall the bewildered band their course direct? What home shall shield that matron’s honoured brow, And those dear pensive maids from wrong protect? Or cheer them ’mid the world’s unkind neglect? That world to the unfortunate so cold, While lavish of its smiles and fair respect Unto the proud, the prosperous, the bold; Still shunning want and woe; still courting pomp and gold.
Shall they adopt the poor retainer’s trade, And sue for pity from the great and proud? No! never shall ungenerous souls upbraid Their conduct in adversity--which bowed But not debased them. Or, amidst the crowd, In noisome towns shall they themselves immure, Their wounds, their woes, their weary days to shroud In some mean melancholy nook obscure? No! worthier tasks await, and brighter scenes allure.
A land of climate fair and fertile soil, Teeming with milk and wine and waving corn, Invites from far the venturous Briton’s toil: And thousands, long by fruitless cares foresworn, And now across the wide Atlantic borne, To seek new homes on Afric’s southern strand: Better to launch with them than sink forlorn, To vile dependence in our native land; Better to fall in God’s than man’s unfeeling hand!
With hearts resigned they tranquilly prepare To share the fortunes of that exile train. And soon with many a follower, forth they fare-- High hope and courage in their hearts again: And now, afloat upon the dark-blue main, They gaze upon the fast-receding shore With tearful eyes--while thus the ballad strain, Half heard amidst the ocean’s weltering roar, Bids farewell to the scenes they ne’er shall visit more:--
“Our native land--our native vale-- A long and last adieu! Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale, And Cheviot mountains blue!
“Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams renowned in song; Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads Our hearts have loved so long.
“Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow! Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, O’erhung with birk and sloe.
“The battle-mound, the Border-tower, That Scotia’s annals tell; The martyr’s grave, the lover’s bower-- To each--to all--farewell!
“Home of our hearts! our father’s home! Land of the brave and free! The sale is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee!
“We seek a wild and distant shore Beyond the Atlantic main; We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again:
“But may dishonour blight our fame, And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name, Green Island of our Sires.
“Our native land--our native vale-- A long, a last adieu! Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale, And Scotland’s mountains blue.”
_Thomas Pringle._
HUNTSCHAW, _Sept. 20, 1819_.
_THE BECHUANA BOY._
I sat at noontide in my tent, And looked across the desert dun, Beneath the cloudless firmament Far gleaming in the sun, When from the bosom of the waste A swarthy stripling came in haste, With foot unshod and naked limb; And a tame springbok followed him.
With open aspect, frank yet bland, And with a modest mien he stood, Caressing with a gentle hand That beast of gentle brood; Then, meekly gazing in my face, Said in the language of his race, With smiling look yet pensive tone, “Stranger--I’m in the world alone!”
“Poor boy,” I said, “thy native home Lies far beyond the Stormberg blue: Why hast thou left it, boy! to roam This desolate Karroo?” His face grew sadder while I spoke; The smile forsook it; and he broke Short silence with a sob-like sigh, And told his hapless history.
“I have no home!” replied the boy; “The Bergenaars--by night they came, And raised their wolfish howl of joy, While o’er our huts the flame Resistless rushed; and aye their yell Pealed louder as our warriors fell In helpless heaps beneath their shot: --One living man they left us not!
“The slaughter o’er, they gave the slain To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey, And with our herds across the plain They hurried us away-- The widowed mothers and their brood. Oft, in despair, for drink or food We vainly cried; they heeded not, But with sharp lash the captive smote.
“Three days we tracked that dreary wild, Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore; And many a mother and her child Lay down to rise no more. Behind us, on the desert brown, We saw the vultures swooping down; And heard, as the grim night was falling, The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.
“At length was heard a river sounding ’Midst that dry and dismal land, And, like a troop of wild deer bounding, We hurried to its strand-- Among the maddened cattle rushing, The crowd behind still forward pushing, Till in the flood our limbs were drenched And the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.
“Hoarse roaring, dark, the broad Gareep In turbid streams was sweeping fast, Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep Loud snorting as we passed; But that relentless robber clan Right through those waters wild and wan Drove on like sheep our wearied band: --Some never reached the farther strand.
“All shivering from the foaming flood, We stood upon the strangers’ ground, When, with proud looks and gestures rude, The white men gathered round: And there, like cattle from the fold, By Christians we were bought and sold, ’Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn-- And roughly from each other torn.
“My mother’s scream, so long and shrill, My little sister’s wailing cry (In dreams I often hear them still!), Rose wildly to the sky. A tiger’s heart came to me then, And fiercely on those ruthless men I sprang--alas! dashed on the sand Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand.
“Away, away on prancing steeds The stout man-stealers blithely go, Through long low valleys fringed with reeds, O’er mountains capped with snow Each with his captive, far and fast; Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed, And distant strips of cultured soil Bespoke the land of tears and toil.
“And tears and toil have been my lot Since I the white-man’s thrall became, And sorer griefs I wish forgot-- Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame! Oh, Englishman! thou ne’er canst know The injured bondman’s bitter woe, When round his breast, like scorpions, cling Black thoughts that madden while they sting!
“Yet this hard fate I might have borne, And taught in time my soul to bend, Had my sad yearning heart forlorn But found a single friend: My race extinct or far removed, The Boer’s rough brood I could have loved; But each to whom my bosom turned Even like a hound the black boy spurned.
“While, friendless, thus, my master’s flocks I tended on the upland waste, It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks, By wolfish wild-dogs chased: I rescued it, though wounded sore And dabbled in its mother’s gore; And nursed it in a cavern wild, Until it loved me like a child.
“Gently I nursed it; for I thought (Its hapless fate so like to mine) By good UTÍKO[2] it was brought To bid me not repine,-- Since in this world of wrong and ill One creature lived that loved me still, Although its dark and dazzling eye Beamed not with human sympathy.
“Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad, My task the proud Boer’s flocks to tend; And this poor fawn was all I had To love or call my friend; When suddenly, with haughty look And taunting words, that tyrant took My playmate for his pampered boy, Who envied me my only joy.
“High swelled my heart!--But when the star Of midnight gleamed, I softly led My bounding favourite forth, and far Into the desert fled. And here, from human kind exiled, Three moons on roots and berries wild I’ve fared; and braved the beasts of prey, To ’scape from spoilers worse than they.
“But yester morn a Bushman brought The tidings that thy tents were near; And now with hasty foot I’ve sought Thy presence, void of fear; Because they say, O English chief, Thou scornest not the captive’s grief: Then let me serve thee, as thine own-- For I am in the world alone!”
Such was Marossi’s touching tale. Our breasts they were not made of stone: His words, his winning looks prevail-- We took him for “our own.” And one, with woman’s gentle art, Unlocked the fountains of his heart; And love gushed forth--till he became Her child in everything but name.
_Thomas Pringle._
_AFAR IN THE DESERT._
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: When the sorrows of life the soul o’ercast, And, sick of the Present, I cling to the past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead: Bright visions of glory--that vanished too soon; Day dreams--that departed ere manhood’s noon; Attachments--by fate or by falsehood reft; Companions of early days--lost or left; And my native Land--whose magical name Thrills to the heart like electric flame; The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young and the world was new, Like the fresh flowers of Eden unfolding to view; All--all now forsaken--forgotten--foregone! And I--a lone exile remembered by none-- My high aims abandoned,--my good acts undone,-- Aweary of all that is under the sun,-- With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the desert, afar from man!
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife-- The proud man’s frown, and the base man’s fear,-- The scorner’s laugh, and the sufferer’s tear,-- And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondsman’s sigh-- Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle’s speed, With the death-fraught firelock in my hand-- The only law in the Desert Land!
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: Away, away, from the dwellings of men, By the wild deer’s haunt, by the buffalo’s glen; By valleys remote where the oribi plays, Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, And the kùdù and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of grey forests o’erhung with wild vine; Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill.
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: O’er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbok’s fawn sounds plaintively; And the timorous quagga’s shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight grey; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, Far hid from the pitiless plunderer’s view In the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.