Songs Of The Road Part 3

1902-1909 [45]

They recruited William Evans From the ploughtail and the spade; Ten years' service in the Devons Left him smart as they are made.

Thirty or a trifle older, Rather over six foot high, Trim of waist and broad of shoulder, Yellow-haired and blue of eye;

Short of speech and very solid, Fixed in purpose as a rock, Slow, deliberate, and stolid, Of the real West-country stock.

[46] He had never been to college, Got his teaching in the corps, You can pick up useful knowledge 'Twixt Saltash and Singapore.

Old Field-Cornet Piet van Celling Lived just northward of the Vaal, And he called his white-washed dwelling, Blesbock Farm, Rhenoster Kraal.

In his politics unbending, Stern of speech and grim of face, He pursued the never-ending Quarrel with the English race.

Grizzled hair and face of copper, Hard as nails from work and sport, [47] Just the model of a Dopper Of the fierce old fighting sort.

With a s.h.a.ggy bearded quota On commando at his order, He went off with Louis Botha Trekking for the British border.

When Natal was first invaded He was fighting night and day, Then he scouted and he raided, With De Wet and Delaney.

Till he had a brush with Plumer, Got a bullet in his arm, And returned in sullen humour To the shelter of his farm.

[48] Now it happened that the Devons, Moving up in that direction, Sent their Colour-Sergeant Evans Foraging with half a section.

By a friendly Dutchman guided, A Van Eloff or De Vilier, They were promptly trapped and hided, In a manner too familiar.

When the sudden sc.r.a.p was ended, And they sorted out the bag, Sergeant Evans lay extended Mauseritis in his leg.

So the Kaffirs bore him, cursing, From the scene of his disaster, [49] And they left him to the nursing Of the daughters of their master.

Now the second daughter, Sadie — But the subject why pursue?

Wounded youth and tender lady, Ancient tale but ever new.

On the stoep they spent the gloaming, Watched the shadows on the veldt, Or she led her cripple roaming To the eucalyptus belt.

He would lie and play with Jacko, The baboon from Bushman's Kraal, Smoked Magaliesberg tobacco While she lisped to him in Taal.

[50] Till he felt that he had rather He had died amid the slaughter, If the harshness of the father Were not softened in the daughter.

So he asked an English question, And she answered him in Dutch, But her smile was a suggestion, And he treated it as such.

Now among Rhenoster kopjes Somewhat northward of the Vaal, You may see four little chappies, Three can walk and one can crawl.

And the blue of Transvaal heavens Is reflected in their eyes, [51] Each a little William Evans, Smaller model pocket size.

Each a little Burgher Piet Of the hardy Boer race, Two great peoples seem to meet In the tiny sunburned face.

And they often greatly wonder Why old granddad and Papa, Should have been so far asunder, Till united by mamma.

And when asked, "Are you a Boer.

Or a little Englishman?"

Each will answer, short and sure, "I am a South African."

[52] But the father answers, chaffing, "Africans but British too."

And the children echo, laughing, "Half of mother half of you."

It may seem a crude example, In an isolated case, But the story is a sample Of the welding of the race.

So from bloodshed and from sorrow, From the pains of yesterday, Comes the nation of to-morrow Broadly based and built to stay.

Loyal spirits strong in union, Joined by kindred faith and blood; Brothers in the wide communion Of our sea-girt brotherhood.

THE WANDERER {1} [53]

1 With acknowledgment to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch.

'Twas in the shadowy gloaming Of a cold and wet March day, That a wanderer came roaming From countries far away.

Scant raiment had he round him, Nor purse, nor worldly gear, Hungry and faint we found him, And bade him welcome here.

His weary frame bent double, His eyes were old and dim, His face was writhed with trouble Which none might share with him.

[54] His speech was strange and broken, And none could understand, Such words as might be spoken In some far distant land.

We guessed not whence he hailed from, Nor knew what far-off quay His roving bark had sailed from Before he came to me.

But there he was, so slender, So helpless and so pale, That my wife's heart grew tender For one who seemed so frail.

She cried, "But you must bide here!

You shall no further roam.

Grow stronger by our side here, Within our moorland home!"

[55] She laid her best before him, Homely and simple fare, And to his couch she bore him The raiment he should wear.

To mine he had been welcome, My suit of russet brown, But she had dressed our weary guest In a loose and easy gown.

And long in peace he lay there, Brooding and still and weak, Smiling from day to day there At thoughts he would not speak.

The months flowed on, but ever Our guest would still remain, Nor made the least endeavour To leave our home again.

[56] He heeded not for grammar, Nor did we care to teach, But soon he learned to stammer Some words of English speech.

With these our guest would tell us The things that he liked best, And order and compel us To follow his behest.

He ruled us without malice, But as if he owned us all, A sultan in his palace With his servants at his call.

Those calls came fast and faster, Our service still we gave, Till I who had been master Had grown to be his slave.