Part 3
The whitewashed, square-cut town, By the grey-green wind-swept sea; The moving throng, And the motor gong, These sing the song for me!
Sing hey! for the Town and its folk, The comers, the goers, the stayers; The just arrived waster, dead-broke, The homeward-bound mummers and players; The white man suspiciously dark! The trooper-man, newly recruited; The hand-bagged and frock-coated clerk, The pioneer corded and booted!
The motley-peopled town! Its raw and cultured folk, Live, work, and play 'Twixt Mount and Bay, And bear one equal yoke.
Sing hey! for the Town, and its dress, The garbs of the twenty-one nations: The Kafir in blanket--and less, The lady in Paris 'creations'; The-man-about-town, rather loud, The nigger in checks somewhat rasher; Here, fez to the turban is bow'd, There, top-hat comes off to the 'smasher.'
The particoloured town, Where plush and broadcloth meet: Where Islam's green And Worth-wrought sheen Rub textures in the street!
Sing hey! for the Town, as a town, A song of its bricks and its plaster; The slum that is mouldering down-- The mansion that's rising the faster. Sing hey! for its one-storied past, Be-flagged, and be-stoeped, and be-whitened; Its five-storied future more vast, Its breadth to be broadened and heightened.
The grim old, prim old town, A brand-new vestment wears, And arc-lights purr Where blue-gums were, And the blanket-Kafir stares!
*BY SIMON'S BAY*
In the mountain fold By the green-blue bay, Where the waves are flecked By the evening gold At the close of day; And the berg is decked With a film of grey, And the mountain's frown On the darkening town-- My mem'ries stray.
By the fringing beach, By the restless wave, Is the straggling town, And its limits reach From the highest place By the mountain's crown To the mountain's base-- Where the waters lave.
Hopeful Town By the Cape of Hope; By the sandy slope Where the Hills look down; By the wind-swept kloof-- On the barrack, grim: On the whitened roof, On the garden trim: On the restless Bay Where the sea-fowl whirls And the spume-dust swirls To the Zephyr's whim-- At the close of day.
Darkening Bay, Where ever lay Alert to slip From leashes taut A blood-flecked hound In the pale lean ship; And where the sound Of echoing boom From far away Is a full-mouthed bay, As the quarry's found. Mournful bay In green and grey, I've thought on you This many a day.
*THE SQUIRE*
Sir John of the Isles, 'E stood on 'is lands, An' looked round 'is large estates: The lands of waste, an' the lands of corn; The rose-clad lands, an' the lands of thorn; An' 'is many gun guarded gates.
Sir John of the Isles, 'E sez to T.A., 'E sez to T.A., sez 'e, 'Oh, you an' your chum, the sailor-man, Must scour the country as far as you can For you are gamekeepers to me.'
Sir John of the Isles, 'E sez to the swells-- The Downing Street frock-coated crew-- 'You are stewards of mine, on Colonial land, An' my tenants, with seventeen guns an' a band, Shall pay their respects unto you!'
Sez John of the Isles To one of the swells, 'Near the lands where you're goin' to Be Is the dusty estate of a crotchety cuss, 'Oo from time to time causes a great deal of fuss, For 'e thinks 'e's better nor me.'
Sez John of the Isles, 'The tenants 'e rules Are a very peculiar lot. 'Is bailifs are 'Ollanders, chock full of guile, An' they run the estate in a Guy-foxy style. Which is Dynamite, Treason and Plot!'
Sez John of the Isles, 'Don't mind 'is remarks, For the land which is 'is--it was mine; But 'e took it to Law in a court rather grim, An' a kopje-'id jury decided for 'im! An' awarded the land as a fine.'
Sir John of the Isles, 'E sez to the swell, 'You're a gentleman, breedin' an birth, An' in case of a row, without losin' your 'ead, You may take my gamekeepers, an' mark 'is land red! On the survey-map of the Earth!'
*THE SEA-NATION*
We rose, a people of the sea, Nursed by the wind, and rocked by wave. Our hard, rock-founded history, Was born from stories of our brave. And northern ice-blasts steeled our frames When war was but the best of games.
We saw a Roman Empire fall, And fell; but falling, learned to rise. We heard the voice of Progress call, And in our folly we were wise: When Briton, Saxon, Norman, Dane, Bequeathed their progeny the main.
And conquered joined with conqueror; And Norman fire, with Saxon zeal Combined; we swept the world before The twanging bow, and clanging steel. Tyrants unmurm'ring bore our yoke, And braggarts thought before they spoke.
Then Iron Might took Right to wife; And lo! our liberty was born! We revelled in the newer life When King was mated by a pawn. Men lived between, of mighty worth; From Montfort's death to Cromwell's birth.
We bore the arrogance of kings, But braved death in fear of God. We rose from great, to greater things. The weak grew potent at our nod. And nations watched the scales of Fate, To see where England threw her weight!
We took our seed to other climes, And from it sprang by divers seas, An Oak--that grew among the Limes! An Oak--among the Blue-gum trees! The Cactus left the land because The Acorn brought its ordered laws.
And like a giant, bearing stings Of gnats, who joy to see him wince, We stand--the envy of the kings Despised by every petty prince! Who know, that while enduring yet, We bear--but we do not forget.
We lived, and live! The world shall see An inextinguishable flame. The nations fade; but we shall be! When Gaul and Teuton are a name! For us the seven seas in one: For landlocked hordes--oblivion.
*NATURE FAILS*
You can eas'ly understand That the green of medder-land Doesn't strike the bloke that 'as to push the roller; An' Nature at the best, When you put 'er to the test, Undiluted, is a very poor consoler.
An' the blue of summer skies 'As no beauties for the eyes Of defaulters on parade in marchin' order; An' the rainiest of morns Brings no feelin's--'cept to corns, Of a feller pickin' oakum with a warder.
Wot's the beauty of the spot, When you're bein' drilled with shot? Wot is Nature when you're checked for bein' dirty? An' eternity's a blank To a feller on the crank, When ev'ry blessed minute seems like thirty!
Bein' punished for your deeds, On fatig' a-pickin' weeds, Can a bloke admire the beauties of the clover? Does the sunset on the 'ills Give defaulters any thrills Except to know the day is nearly over.
Bein' frog-marched to the clink, Does a feller stop to think On the grass before 'is eyes so swif'ly runnin', 'Ow that ev'ry single blade Is most wonderfully made Wiv a skill beyond all artificial cunnin'?
An' you cannot pant for wars When you're scrubbin' barrack floors, Or get inspired on bully-beef an' biscuit: It requires a poet's soul When a feller's cartin' coal To think 'isself in danger, an' to risk it.
Does a feller care a D-- For the friskin' of a lamb, When 'e 'as to watch the friskin' thro' a gratin'? Does the lowin' of the 'erds, Or the twitterin' of the birds, Soothe a feller when for punishment 'e's waitin'?
L' ENVOI
In the deepest pits of 'Ell, Where the worst defaulters dwell (Charcoal devils used as fuel as you require 'em), There's some lovely coloured rays, Pyrotechnical displays: _But you can't expect the burnin' to admire 'em!_
*THE COLONEL'S GARDEN*
There are gardins, an' there's gardins, Some are good, an' some are not. There are gardins in a glass 'ouse Where the air is allus 'ot. But whether on a winder-ledge, Or in a flower-pot, I'll back our Colonel's gardin For to lick the bilin' lot.
There are gardners, _an'_ there's gardners, Some are great, an' some are small. Some could change a bloomin' brickfield To a Covent Gard'n ball! There are some 'oo couldn't 'ardly Fix a creeper to a wall! But I'll back our Colonel's gardner, Jerry Jordan, 'gin 'em all!
O the flowers they are lovely! An' the roses they are fair; An' the daisies they are winkin' Thro' a lash of maiden-'air! An' the lilies, tall an' naked-- Tho' it's little that they care! An' the garden--under Jerry-- Is a place beyond compare!
There are flowers bloomin' early, There are flowers bloomin' late; There is 'oneysuckle climbin' On the porchway, by the gate.
There's some cress an' mustard growin' On a commissairy plate! O the garden it is lovely-- That's when Jerry's on the straight!
* * * * *
O the garden it's neglected. An' the pinks 'ave ceased to pink, An' the petals they are droppin', An' the blooms they bend and sink. O the flowers they are fadin' Now that Jerry's took to drink! O the flowers they're neglected-- Jerry Jordan's in the clink!
For the flowers will not blossom, An' they don't give out no smells, The convul'vus it is weepin' From its verigated bells. An' the lily's in hysterics, An' she faints away in spells: O there's weepin', an' there's wailin'-- Jerry Jordan's doin' cells!
* * * * *
O the path is rolled an' gravelled, An' the gardin's fresh as rain, An' the weeds that strewed the borders They no longer there remain. An' the flowers they are smilin', For they're out of all their pain; An' the bees they 'um for gladness-- Jerry Jordan's out again!
*THE PEOPLE TO CECIL JOHN RHODES,*
JULY 18, 1899
By the bond that binds the scattered folk to home, We have come. By the love to dear old England which you bear-- And we share, By the knowledge of the Empire you extend-- Britain's friend!-- We are gathered, many thousand people, to Welcome you!
We are strangers drawn together by one tie, They and I, Merely men who, having never met before, Meet no more! But a common cause has bridged the social breach, Each to each Has one soft word of fellowship to say, Here to-day.
If you search among our numbers you will find Every kind: Dutchman, Briton, 'Africander,' and Malay In array; Christian, Mussulman, and he of Abram's seed-- Every creed: With the worshippers of _Sakyanumi's_ mud-- Mighty Budh.
But if every heart was melted, and when done Moulded one-- If a welcome in a polyglotic tongue Could be sung-- If one voice could speak our sentiments to-day, We would say, Very simply: 'We are glad that you are come-- Welcome home!'
We have followed you, and watched your noble stand For your land. And your triumphs and your greatly troubled hours. Have been ours: And our sympathetic wishes for your cause, Have been yours: Since the day on which you left us to go forth, 'For my North!'
We have followed you through many foreign ways, In these days. By the Nilus, on the Desert, new surveyed, You have strayed: By the Pyramids and palms of Cairo town, Parched and brown: By the quiet shades of Oxford, prim and green, You have been.
In the stately city hall, in spirit we Came to see The cheering thousands testify belief, In their Chief. In the regal courts of Potsdam, at your side We were tied, By the tighter bond than kinship ever drew--- We and you!
If our hearts in concord melted and were run Into one! If a welcome in a polyglotic tongue. Could be sung: If two words could voice our sentiments to-day, We would say-- Very simply, being glad that you are come-- 'Welcome home!'
*WHEN LONDON CALLS!*
There's a voice that calls to Mecca, there's a voice that calls to Rome. (O the Holiest of Holies! O the Temple and the Shrine!) There's a bleating from a pasture, and it calls a wand'rer home. (O the friskings of the yearlings, and the lowing of the kine!) There's a penetrating whisper that can rise above the gale From the cot of thatch and plaster, from the oaken-gabled hall, From the limpid lake of silver in the verdant velvet vale, From the shamrock and the heather, Hear the call!
There's a voice that calls the waster, when the doors of home are shut. (O the voice of club and chamber, and the arc-light burning blue!) There's a voice that calls the trooper in his daub and wattle hut. (O the midnight cabs that rattle from the Strand to Waterloo!) There's a voice for ever calling from the Square and from the Slum, From the Hornsey Rise to Brixton, from St. Saviour's to St. Paul's. 'Tis the never-changing message of the everlasting 'Come' To the brick and to the mortar. London calls!
You may still the voice of conscience, and suppress the blush of shame. (O the deed that made you outlaw! O the folly and the sin!) But never man ignored it when the call to London came. (The call from belfry tower! O the clanging, banging din!) 'Tis the wooded green of Greenwich with the deer among the fern. 'Tis the bleak, blank streets of Lambeth, where the drizzling fog-mist falls. It's a weary aching whisper, and it murmurs, 'O return To the Elegance, the Squalor. London calls!'
'Tis the swelling roar of Epsom, with the backers seven deep. (O the rush around the Corner, and the finish on the Straight!) 'Tis the tinkling hum of Henley as it snuggles down to sleep. (O the light-lined laughing river, with its fairy-fancied fete!) 'Tis the growl of Ratcliffe Highway, 'tis the lisp of Rotten Row; 'Tis the beauty that entrances, 'tis the horror that appals; 'Tis the firemen's horses tearing to the midnight sky aglow; It's a vague and restless--something. London calls!
It is early morning Fleet Street, when the throbbing presses fly. (O the Father of the Chapel! O the ticking, talking tape!) 'Tis the universal High Street, where the world may see and buy. (O the steamboat of Newcastle! O the feather of the Cape!) 'Tis the heart of all creation, where the veins of commerce meet; 'Tis the centre seat in gall'ry, 'tis the booked and numbered stalls; 'Tis the barrow in Whitechapel, 'tis the brougham in Regent Street; 'Tis the Commonplace--the Novel. London calls!
'Tis the glitter and the jingle on the Foreign Office stairs. (O the starred and gartered Levee! O the Rulers of the Land!) 'Tis the crowd about the stretcher and the burden that it bears. (O the ward in darkened silence! O the swiftly running sand!) 'Tis the message of the letter, 'tis the message of the wire; 'Tis the dainty hand that types it, 'tis the awkward fist that scrawls; 'Tis the memory that sickens, 'tis the thought that burns 'like fire; 'Tis the life that's worth the living! London calls!
'Tis the cheering of the Commons and the cry of 'Who goes home?' (O the bell that rings Division! O the seat beneath the card!) 'Tis the choir-boys' voices rising to the lofty, painted dome. (O the flutter of the pigeons in the flagged and mossy yard!) 'Tis the Sabbath bells that echo down the silent city streets; 'Tis the Steel inside the Velvet! 'Tis the stroking hand that mauls! 'Tis the Tutor, it's the Master. It prepares and it completes! It is London--and it's LONDON! And it calls!
*CAIROWARDS*
Going up--and by all one man's will! Untrodden lands shall echo with our roars, Our engines' wheels shall break the mountains' still, Uncharted rivers see us by their shores; And where the lions drink, and panthers prey, Shall lie the ballast of our iron-bound way.
Going up! Primaeval forest, where The Bushman lurks with poison at his lips, Must give its best, and all its treasures bare, When our iron-monster in its hollows dips; And caves, from which the cobra issues forth, Shall be a Somewhere Junction--for the North.
Going up! Eternal snows, that crown The lonely summits of the lordly hills, Shall look upon our laboured paths, and frown Upon the girdered bridge that spans their rills; But, clinging to the slope, with scanty hold, The road shall be unfastened, fold by fold.
Going up! The stifling winds that blow Across the sweep of fiery desert waste Shall clog and cloy our workings as we go, And strive to check us in our desp'rate haste, With sand that holds us in its shifting clutch-- And iron and brass shall blister to the touch.
Going up! The Nile in sullen wrath Shall rise and smite the sleeper from the rail, And say: 'Behold the Mistress of the North! Who does not let the work of man prevail!' But patient man shall strive against her might Until the palms of Cairo are in sight!
*ODE TO THE OPENING OF THE SOUTH AFRICAN EXHIBITION, 1898*
Father of all! Robed in splendour, Thou who dost wield Almighty power, All things are thine, Fruitage and flower-- Cattle and kine-- Vineyard and field! Hear, when we call. Praising the Sender!
Father of all! Strong to deliver! Here, do we place, Down at Thy feet, Fruits of our hands-- Trophies of wheat, Won from Thy lands-- Trophies of chase. Hear, when we call, Praising the Giver!
Father of all! Weaver and fuller; Craftsman and herd; Chapman and knave; Worker and drone; Headman and slave, Worship a-prone-- Bow to Thy word! Hear Thou our call, Praising the Ruler!
Father of all! Billow and breaker Sink to Thy nod! Here, have we brought, That which we found, That which we wrought, Drawn from Thy ground, Culled from Thy sod. Hear, when we call, Praising the Maker!
Father of all! Thine is the story Written in space! What Thou hast made Knows not of death. Let us not fade, Catching Thy breath, Live by Thy grace! Hear Thou our call, Thine is the Glory!
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press