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.
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,
