Chapter II: Night (1)

Dost thou not love, O angel of the night,
Above all others this fair southern land?
For thou hast gemmed its skies with lavish hand,
With rarest stars and constellations bright.
Shines not its vestal moon with purer light?
Hath not its galaxy more lustrous hue
While star-clouds, set in heavens more deeply blue,
Still gladden ours, as erst Magellan’s sight?
O would that while the old grey mountains sleep
There might be silence in the which to find
Grand music! But if joyous creatures keep
Perpetual chorus, shall my captious mind
Object? Creation’s harmonies lie deep,
But to the soul attuned the parts are well combined.

_G. Longmore._

_THE FADED PHOTOGRAPH._

TO MY FRIEND, DAVID C----, BATH, SOMERSETSHIRE.

Your portrait hangs upon my wall,
Among my treasures highly classed,
For it is potent to recall
Old days that we have passed
In close communion, heart and mind,
Where Avon’s placid waters wind.

And very often, as I gaze,
Bath’s noble hills with you I climb,
Or tread the valley’s wooded ways
Where we’ve roved many a time:
Delightful scenes that I would fain,
Before I sleep, behold again.

Our Cape its beauties hath, ’tis true:
Old Table Mountain’s always grand,
Our sun is bright, our sky is blue;
The Maker’s bounteous hand,
From which all beauty hath its birth,
Made this far corner of His earth.

Yet must a Briton love his home
The more for absence, as I ween,
And greatly do I long to roam
Through daisied meadows green,
Perchance made dulcet by the swell
Of distant chiming village bell.

O for a field of new mown hay,
A beach, or elm, or tasselled birch;
A springtide scent of virgin May,
Or a glimpse of an ivied church!
To tramp the stubbles of the corn
Upon a fresh September morn;

To tread once more with gladsome feet
The thronging street, the busy mart;
To feel again the mighty beat
Of England’s wondrous heart!
But, though I long, I murmur not,
For Heaven appoints each human lot.

You know not how we exiles prize
This modern photographic art,
Portraying to our grateful eyes,
Exact in every part,
Kindred and friends forever dear;
We gaze, and almost think you here.

Your picture’s somewhat faded now,
But to fond memory it shows
Your very self; oft mark I how
You wear your homely clothes.
You know what one professor teaches,
And I have faith in what he preaches.[17]

And oft I sit by your fireside,
And share your daily household life;
Upon my knees the youngsters ride,
Or I chat with your blue-eyed wife.
Give them my love, and tell them, pray,
Not to forget me far away.

Let time and age do all they can,
And let it fade, if fade it will,
This portrait of a sterling man
Shall grace my chamber still;
And I its dimmest lines shall trace,
Until I meet him face to face.

_G. Longmore._

CAPE TOWN, _February 1862_.

_EVELEEN._

My own girl at home,
Weep no longer for me,
The ship steps through the ocean foam
That bears me back to thee.
Full sail and bending mast,
We cleave the waters green;
I’m hasting home to thee, at last,
My own Eveleen.

I have o’ercome the fate
That parted us so long;
I have o’erpast the treacherous hate,
Forgot the rankling wrong.
I am speeding o’er the sea
They swore should roll between
The one who loves thee well, and thee,
My own Eveleen!

Of you, how many a night
I’ve dreamed, the long watch through!
From noon’s brain-searing shafts of light
My thoughts have flown to you.
To you in your own home bowers,
Where the light falls cool and green,
My saint of saints! my flower of flowers!
My own Eveleen!

But now no longer pine,
No longer wait and weep;
Our pennant floats far o’er the brine,
We march along the deep.
With store of royal gold,
With silks of sunny sheen,
And bridal raiment meet to fold
My own Eveleen.

An hour! and he shall trace
The old home seen once more;
But to have seen his true love’s face
White as the shroud she wore!
Oh, fading human love!
Oh, light in darkness seen!
Oh, voiceless as the stone above
Thy grave, Eveleen!

_C. P. M._

MOZAMBIQUE CHANNEL,
_November 1861_.

_FAREWELL TO MADEIRA._

Hark! hear the billow swell;
Bright Madeira, fare thee well,
Shining mountains, azure skies,
Sunniest hearts and friendliest eyes:
All my soul has felt so long,
Like a joyous flow of song,
Sinks at vesper’s distant bell,
Loved Madeira, fare thee well.

Summer island, now no more
Shall I move along thy shore,
Where in all thy waves I caught
Oracles of peaceful thought;
Mid thy glittering walls and towers,
Girt by vines and gay with flowers,
Oft in sleep shall fancy dwell:
Loved Madeira, fare thee well.

Rock-built isle, whose mountains rude,
Are the throne of solitude;
Where from giant crag and steep
I have gazed on valleys deep,
Feeling powers within me pass
From each stern aerial mass;
Land of lovely peak and dell,
Loved Madeira, fare thee well.

Far within the cares of life,
Hushed beyond the sound of strife,
Where, methinks, thy spirits call
From thy soothing waterfall;
Oft shalt thy remembrance be
Quiet strength and joy to me,
Brightening mem’ry’s dusky cell,
Loved Madeira, fare thee well.

From the heights of time and toil,
Where I stand on heavenly soil,
Far around, discerning clear
Many a various land and year,
Most the vision seems to smile
Warmed by the Hesperian isle;
Round thee floats a sunny spell,
While I murmur, fare thee well.

Often magic lures me far
Toward the East’s familiar star;
Older powers with earlier sway,
Chanting call me hence away;
And I hear above thy foam,
Trembling round the voice of home,
Whispering more than tongue can tell--
Yet, Madeira, fare thee well.

On thee still may summer breathe,
Still thy crown with blossoms wreathe;
And may still, with peace divine,
More of noblest life be thine:
Making hearts of kindliest mould
Earnest, glad, serene, and bold.
So, supreme all ill to quell,
God, fair island, keep thee well!

_John Stirling._

_FAREWELL TO FIFTY-FIVE._

Farewell, farewell, old Fifty-five! to thee,
This circling ball no longer homage yields;
Thy record’s closed, and frail humanity
Stands trembling ’neath the rod that conscience wields.
For now, methinks, that record’s page reveals
A long dark roll of follies, faults, and crimes
Before His eye, whose love in vain appeals
To hearts ingrate; whose goodness glads our times,
And spreads with genial gifts the wide earth’s varied climes.

Upon thy wingèd hours, old Fifty-five,
Alternate hopes and fears have trembling hung,
Capricious as the fleecy clouds which drive
Athwart the summer sky, a motley throng
Of joys and griefs, have swiftly swept along.
Now o’er the welkin peal the bridal bells;
Anon the mournful funeral dirge is sung;
Big with this truth each passing moment swells,--
“Beyond the sky alone unchanging pleasure dwells.”

Farewell, old Fifty-five! the visions fair
Which down thy sparkling vista erst appeared,
Beguiling Mammon’s votaries with the glare
Of sordid wealth in pile on pile upreared,
Have flitted past, and left a blank, uncheered
By one bright gleam, in many an aching breast.
O were the sober truth more wide revered,
And gaping folly’s golden dreams repressed,
How few would groan beneath the gambler’s dark unrest.

Few were our tears, old Fifty-five, hadst thou
Consigned alone the noisome vampire band
To disappointment blank, and carking woe:
But thou with undiscriminating hand
Hast flung on poverty’s inclement strand
Full many a one styled “noblest work of God.”
His lowing herds have perished from the land,
Or haply o’er his fields a blight has trod;
Still, _he_ can trusting say, “My Father holds the rod.”

Farewell, old Fifty-five! bright o’er thy days,
Celestial truth has flung her radiant bow;
Benignant from her throne she stoops to raise
Each moiling slave of ignorance and woe.
Her silv’ry voice proclaims to high and low
This blood-bought truth, “man’s mind and tongue are free.”
May every human breast responsive glow,
Till superstition, pride, and bigotry,
Their lofty heads abase, and like grim spectres flee.

Farewell, old Fifty-five! inhuman war
With blood-red hand has o’er thy cycle swept.
Horrific still he rolls his thund’ring car
’Mid ghastly wounds, and dying groans unwept.
The cannon’s roar which long in silence slept,
Unceasing echoes o’er the dismal scene;
Deep blushing, Mercy from her throne has stept,
While eager Rapine stalks with hideous mien,
And gloating scan’s the flaming city’s lurid sheen.

O Liberty! Britannia’s proudest boast;
O Liberty! man’s brightest heritage;
Why on thy steps attendant should a host
Of sanguinary passions fiercely rage?
Or why should history’s memorable page
Be blotted o’er with sighs and groans and tears?
When will grey time mature the golden age,
When men shall snap their swords and quiv’ring spears,
And Peace triumphant reign o’er all the circling years?

Farewell, old Fifty-five--as ling’ring still
Thy last faint echoes on the ear expire,
And sadd’ning thoughts the heaving bosom fill,
Hope strings anew her animating lyre.
Eternal truth--the soul’s immortal fire--
Ere long shall claim the homage of the world,
High o’er gaunt Slavery’s blazing funeral pyre
Shall Freedom’s crimson banner wave unfurled,
And Ignorance and Vice from their dark thrones be hurled.

_William Selwyn._

PORT ELIZABETH, _January 1, 1856_.

“_LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT._”

“A little earthen lamp, 1700 years old, was recently found in the
East, which bore this inscription--‘The light of Christ shines for
all.’”--_Christian Express_, December 1, 1878.

This tiny lamp of fragile clay
Once shed its faint and flick’ring ray,
To cheer perchance some sage’s hall;
Its light extinct, ’mid wreck it lies,
Through seventeen rolling centuries;
Till disentombed, behold the truth,
Bright with the glow of pristine youth,
“The light of Christ shines for us all!”

Hail, glorious truth! Thy music thrills
In echoes from time’s distant hills;
And still thy tones melodious fall.
Still may poor wand’rers lift their heads
To Him, whose face benignant sheds
Effulgent rays, to warm and cheer,
To waken hope, and banish fear;
“The light of Christ still shines for all!”

The ice-built screens by bigots planned,--
As children’s barriers in the sand,
Dashed by the wild waves, sink and fall--
Melt in the beams from Jesus’ face,
Exhale in mist and leave no trace:
Free as the breeze on mountain side,
Wide as the ocean’s rolling tide,
“The light of Christ still shines for all!”

Light, light for Afric’s dusky throng;
Light for the pris’ners held so long
In superstition’s blinding thrall;
Light for the savage and the sage,
For smiling youth, and trembling age;
Light for all sorrowing, sin-struck eyes
That seek the pathway to the skies;
“The light of Christ still shines for all!”

_W. Selwyn._

PORT ELIZABETH, _December 11, 1878_.

“_SHOULD IT BE ACCORDING TO THY MIND._”

(JOB xxxiv 33.)

Shall feeble, vain, presumptuous man
Whose loftiest vision’s but a span,
Impugn the vast mysterious plan
By boundless wisdom laid?
Shall His omnipotent behest,
That thunders o’er wild ocean’s breast,
Or lulls its surging waves to rest,
By puny worms be stayed?

Shall man, whose moments hurrying flee,
Like sparklets from a phosphor sea,
Prescribe to dread Eternity
The laws of His domain?
Shall He who scans each circling pole,
And points the course the planets roll,
Seek wisdom from the darkling mole
To guide the shining train?

Shall yon vast orb whose kindling ray
Pours forth the universal day
His glad, majestic progress stay,
Lest, haply, his bright beams
With light unwelcome should illume
The drowsy couch, and chide the gloom
Of some voluptuous sluggard’s room,
And chase his idle dreams?

Shall thirsty nature pant in vain
For showers of life-restoring rain;
Shall desolation sweep the plain
And beauty droop and die;
Lest one bright drop’s exultant spring
Should snap the spider’s airy string,
Or dim, perchance, the golden wing
Of some gay butterfly?

Shall yon glad stream, whose sparkling tide
Spreads verdant beauty far and wide,
O’erleap its banks and turn aside,
Or in the desert sink;
Lest, haply, fraught with summer showers,
Its waves should ripple o’er the flowers
By children planted ’mid the bowers
That tangle on its brink?

No! He, whose power with life endued
This glorious universe, pursued
In His design the highest good
And happiness of all;
And still, at His benign command,
Rich bounties gladden ev’ry land,
And still He guides, with all-wise hand
Each tenant of this ball.

O! then, low-bending in the dust,
Cling to His LOVE, with child-like trust,
Believing that Omniscience must
Know what for thee is best;
Let resignation soothe thy cares;
Let faith disperse thy gloomy fears;
And God Himself shall dry thy tears
In His eternal rest.

_W. Selwyn._

PORT ELIZABETH, _January 21, 1879_.

_TO GRAAFF REINET._

Hail! “Gem of the Desert,” in slumber reposing,
The dark hills thy cradle, soft verdure thy bed;
The breeze from the kloof richest perfumes disclosing,
Lightly sweeps o’er thy bosom, raising dust very red.

The last gleams of the sun in gay splendour descending
Seem fondly to linger around the tall spire,
While the clouds, rainbow-tinted, their gorgeous hues lending,
Make the Dutchmen’s black chimneys seem as if all afire.

Deep bosomed in shade the dark river meanders,
Save where, like a mirror, it gleams from the glade;
Or soapy and slimy through mud-holes it wanders,
Where stockings are washed by a Hottentot maid.

Sweet abode of content; dearly loved Graaff Reinet!
Long, long mayst thou bask in thy slumber profound;
Tame spring-bucks be baited for a sixpenny bet,
And thy butter be sold at four shillings per pound.

_W. Selwyn._

GRAAFF REINET, 1860.

_HYMN._

WRITTEN DURING THE ZULU WAR.

“And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto
me.”

--JOHN xii. 32.

O Saviour throned in peace above
Reveal Thy piercèd side,
And let the vision of Thy love
Stay war’s remorseless tide;
Risen Saviour, hear!

For white, for black, alike didst Thou
Low bow Thy fainting head;
For all of ev’ry clime and hue,
Didst Thou thy heart’s blood shed.
Suffering Saviour, hear!

Behold fair Afric’s sunny lands
With reeking carnage strewed,
See God-made man with rigid hands
In brother’s blood imbrued;
Sorrowing Saviour, hear!

O hear the Briton’s dying groan,
The Zulu’s piercing wail;
O hear the famished orphan’s moan,
The widow’s sobbing tale;
Pitying Saviour, hear!

In mercy stay the quiv’ring spear;
Avert the death-winged ball;
Pour balm for ev’ry scalding tear,
And breathe Thy peace o’er all.
Mighty Saviour, hear!

Draw weary warriors round Thy feet
By love’s constraining cord;
There let the scattered nations meet,
And hail Thee Sov’reign Lord.
Gracious Saviour, hear!

_William Selwyn._

PORT ELIZABETH, _February 9, 1879_.

THE LAMENT

OF THE GUTTER LATELY FILLED UP BY AN UNPOETICAL MUNICIPALITY.

Old residents of Port Elizabeth will remember the kloof running
down between Donkin Street and Constitution Hill, which was spanned
by a rude wooden foot-bridge just opposite Dr. Edwards’ residence.
The kloof having been filled up now forms the site of the row of
houses on the right-hand side of Donkin Street. This municipal
improvement forms the subject of the following pitiful “Lament.”
Whatever may be thought of the merit of the verses, the author
takes some credit for an eye to the “practical,” for the attempt to
lead off the surface water through an underground culvert, resulted
in the catastrophe predicted in the concluding verses within a very
short time after the completion of the work.

Oh list, good folks, a tale of woe,
A tale of dark oppression,
Let briny tears your cheeks down flow
In sorrowful procession.

Till late I trickled down the glen,
In sunbeams gaily sparkling;
But now, entombed by heartless men,
I creep on cold and darkling.

Beneath a huge chaotic mass
Of rubbish vile I mutter;
Mid frogs and fungi rank, alas!
A melancholy gutter.

No more my channel, decked with green,
Relieves the eye aweary.
Its verdant slopes no more are seen,
But all around is dreary.

No more the breeze, with fitful sigh,
Along my bed breathes mildly,
No more, when Boreas blusters high,
My caverns echo wildly.

The rustic bridge, that bound my banks
In brotherhood together,
Is torn away, and its rude planks
Are gone--“the Board” knows whither.

Away! a dire revenge I’ll brew;
My rage, meanwhile, I’ll bung tight.
That sordid “Board” the day shall rue
When next I see the sunlight.

When turbid torrents rushing pass
Adown my peeping square holes,
Right through this execrable mass,
I, madman like, will tear holes.

I’ll heave aloft the lumb’ring load,
And crashing down I’ll toss it,
Till in the middle of the road[18]
I make a “fixed deposit.”

_William Selwyn._

_MY “SALTED” STEED._

Oh! give me back my “salted” steed,
They said, he would not die,
They said of stable I’d no need,
But told a dreadful lie.
I let him out one moonlight night--
Upon the grass he fed--
And in the morning, cruel sight!
My salted steed was DEAD.

I bought him with a good “Bewijs,”
And thought to get my geld--
So wrote a letter in a trice,
And sent it through the veld;
But when the man who sold him came
And opened his inside--
He said the “paapjes” were to blame,
And that was how he died!

I’ve had a dozen steeds or more,
Since that eventful day;
But no more “salted” ones, be sure--
That sort of thing don’t pay,
For if a charger’s worth a sou,
He’s worth his feed, I swear:
And should he live, I laugh, don’t you?
And should he die, don’t care.

_A. Brodrick._

TRANSVAAL.

_A ROMANCE FROM THE FIELDS._

A COLONIAL BALLAD.

“How be I getting along, sir?
Why, thankee, I can’t complain;
The taties and crops looks splendid,
Since we got that there last rain:
The cattle and birds does middling,
The missus and children’s well,
And the future looks bright and cheery,
So far as I can tell.

“I look like a Dutchman, do I?
With them feathers in my hat!
Well p’r’aps they’re a trifle gaudy,
But I’ll wear ’em ’spite of that.
My ‘talisman’ I calls ’em, for
They came off a wondrous bird,
That completely changed our fortunes:
’Tis the strangest tale you’ve heard.

“Afore you left for England,
You may mind I went to the Fields;
I was nigh played out with farming,
And read of the thumping yields
Them diamond claims was giving, so
Resolved my luck to try,--
The drought and cruel lungsick
Had bothered us proper_ly_.

“I got what I could together,
And we started right ahead;
Missus and me and Bill here,
With two little gals as is dead.
I didn’t do much at digging,
But money could then be earned
By any willing fellow
Who to work in earnest turned.

“Wages was high, and I prospered,
Till fever came to the place,
And I was unable to work, sir,
And our children drooped apace.
’Twas a sad time, I can tell you,
And oft should we have starved,
But a neighbour--he’d been a sailor--
His substance with us halved.

“Good? I should say that he _was_ good,
A thorough kind-hearted brick--
Poor fellow! before very long though,
He himself fell sorely sick.
My wife did all she could, kind soul,
And nursed him night and day;
But with me and the children poorly,
She’d a hardish part to play.

“Poor Jim didn’t get no better,
And it seems made up his mind,
As how he must die at the Fields, sir,
And all he’d to leave behind
Would ’queath to my missus, who always
Had been his kindest friend--
’Twasn’t _much_, for things were dear then,
And his coin had come to an end.

“Well! all there was he made over,
Then poor Jim was laid to rest--
We got his watch and knicknacks,
But what the wife liked best
Was a couple of Dorking hens, sir,
And a fine young Spanish cock;
Quite right, sir, them’s the feathers,
That I fear give you a shock.

“The missus was fond of poultry,
And was pleased with what we’d got;
But hunger is hard to bear, sir,
So the birds came to the pot.
Our little gals lay a dying,
And food we all must have,
So one by one the fowls were killed,
But our bairns we could not save.

“The young cock’s turn came last, but
To kill him we all were loth;
But Billy and me in the fever lay,
So the wife made us some broth.
And now was the strangest thing, for when
That bird was drawn, his crop
Contained--well, guess?--I assure you,
My wife was fit to drop.

“A diamond? Yes! a brilliant,
Without a fault or flaw,
As good a gem, for its size, you know,
As ever merchant saw.
Four hundred pounds we sold it for,
And we bought shares in a claim
That doubled soon the sum we had:
Don’t that _bird_ deserve some fame?

“Thank God, the fever left us,
Little Billy was first to mend;
And after a while I got stronger,
And could to work attend.
But we’d all had enough of the Fields, sir,
And longed to come back home;
To settle down in the dear old place,
Nor want again to roam.

“I look like a Dutchman, do I?
Well! all that we have we owe
To that young bird, I reckon;
And my gratitude I shall show.
I shall sport his blue-black plumes then,
For it does not oft betide,
When killing a fowl to cook, you find
A _plum_ in his inside.”

_C. F. Overton._

_THE FLIGHT OF THE AMAKOSA._

A RIFLE CORPS LEGEND.

It’s the hour of the morn
When he who’s not born
With a silver spoon ready-made for him, will scorn
To muddle his head
By lying in bed,
But jumps into a tub of cold water instead;
Which disperses each dream,
And gets up his steam,
And makes him as fresh as new butter and cream;
Drives off sleep’s dizziness,
Fits him for business,
Screws up his system,
And seems to assist him
To follow whatever employments enlist him.

In short, it’s the hour when the whole _Ville du Cap_
(As the Frenchmen call Cape Town) wakes up from its nap
And prepares for its trade, its profession or craft, as
Labourer, lawyer, or dealer in baftas.

But every one knows
That although _l’homme propose_,
It isn’t in mortals themselves to “dispose,”
For that is undoubtedly _toute autre chose_--
Or to speak in plain English, when plain English suits--
A pair of decidedly different boots.

And so on this day
Quite a different way
Of spending its time--neither work nor yet play--
From what Cape Town chalked out
When first it had walked out
That morning, it found in its destiny lay.
For Brown, Jones, and Robinson, Thomson, Smith, Russel,
And Jack, Tom, and Harry, are all in a bustle,
Crying, “Holloa! what now?
What’s the news? what’s the row?
What the deuce can the matter be?
What can the clatter be?”
Kafirs escaped from the Amsterdam Battery!

It’s really true:
And one looks blue
And another knows hardly what to do:
Some stare, and some
Look shockingly glum,
While others declare it’s “remarkably rum.”
“Why don’t they bring Inspector King,
And his blue-coat ‘peelers?’--that’s the thing?”
While others shout,
“What are they about?
Why don’t they call the artillery out?”
But voices are drowned
By a martial sound
That all on a sudden rings out around;
And each who hears
Cries out, “Three cheers!
It’s the bugle-call of the Volunteers!”

Over the chimney-pots, over the tiles,
Over the gardens, two square miles,
Float the sounds of that warlike blast,
Proclaiming approaching relief at last.
Doubt has fled,
Fear hides its head,
And curiosity reigns instead.

* * * * *

In the square of the Church there’s a hubbub and fluster,
In the square of the Church the brave warriors muster--
Cavalry warriors armed, spurred, and booted,
With white-covered caps for the atmosphere suited,
Jackets of blue, rather short in the waist,
Garnished with silver in beautiful taste,
Trousers of blue with a broad silver border
And very long swords of the steel-scabbard order.
One by one,
To see the fun
The citizens into the Church square run,
And then they gaze
In delighted amaze
At the gallant scene the square displays,
As the warriors gather by twos and threes
Beneath the shadow of two small trees,
Twirling mustachios in solemn monotony--
Excepting the captain, who hasn’t yet got any,
While a few little boys
Are making a noise
And shouting, “Oh my!
Here comes a guy!
Oh come and look at this rummy fella
A riding up with his umberella!”
And truth to confess,
It _did_ look a mess,
As a hero rode up on his gallant Black Bess,
And while he wore
His costume _du corps_,
In his hand a white-covered umbrella he bore.

The muster’s complete,
Each man’s in his seat,
Ready to do any desperate feat.
The captain springs
To his saddle, and flings
A look which alone attention brings;
Ere he gives the word,
And as soon as it’s heard,
Not a limb but in discipline’s rule is stirred,
And every one sees that those gaily clad men are all
Ready to die at the word of their general.
(I give him this title, for though it is true
He’s a captain alone--of this rifle corps blue--
The intelligent reader will also discern he’s
Her Majesty’s General--of the Attorneys.)

Away! list again to the trumpet, for hark! it
Sounds gallantly out from the square of Greenmarket.
Away! seek the steps of the classic Town Hall:
See the infantry Rifles respond to the call,
Officers, privates, and bandsmen, and all;
All looking valiant, and all to a man
Determined at least to be found in “the van.”

And now cavalry, infantry, all are assembled,
And Greenmarket Square ’neath their tramp has trembled;
And orders of all sorts on all sides are given,
And spurs in the flanks of the chargers are driven--
“March!” “Forward!” Away! “Drive on, coachee!” all tell a
Sad tale of what Horace calls _aspera bella_.

* * * * *

The way was long, the day was hot,
The Rifles very warm had got;
Their bright blue coats and silver gay
Seemed to befit a cooler day;
Their swords, their glory and their joy,
Hung in their sheaths, a useless toy;
The first of all the Rifles they
Who rode forth to the Kafir fray.
But, well-a-day! that luck was fled,
No Kafirs were discoverèd:
Though they, the bravest of their race,
Longed to be with them face to face.
No more with hopeful looks they glance,
And spur their steeds to make them prance;
But half their ardour, martial, gay,
In perspiration melts away.

Yet now they make a gallant push,
And bravely scour the scrubby bush.
Woe to the foe that lurks within,
While forward dashes headlong Glynn.
Woe to the foe!
“What’s that? Holloa!
Somebody’s hiding there, I know.
Huzzah! there he is,
With his coal-black phiz,
And his black woolly hair too all in a friz:
Yield, villain! yield, or prepare to feel
Two feet and a half of this trusty steel!”

The villian _has_ yielded--they’ve captured him,
And they’ve tied up his wrists with a bit of a reim--
First fruits of the foray! oh, gallant Glynn,
’Tis thine the honour of war to win.
But what’s that remark?
Who talks of a lark?
Do tell us, oh do,
Is it really true?
From trooper to trooper the sentence that’s _now_ heard,
“The woolly head chap’s Mr. Somebody’s cowherd.”
The gallant captain’s seen to smile,
Gravely shakes his head awhile,
Then, as he taps his sabre’s hilt, he
Cries, “Let him go! he’s found ‘not guilty.’”

Forward again in the roasting sun,
Horses and troopers, too, almost done,
March forth the cavalry, one by one;
And behind them the infantry’s green coats appear,
For they’re still in “the van” though they’re still in the rear.

Forward they move, but alas! alas!
Not a Kafir is seen through all the pass
(Though Private Saunders has brought a glass).
Camp’s Bay is reached, and each Rifleman’s breast
At that moment a thrill of joy confest,
As he gazed on the scene, and half-way up the hill he
Perceived in the distance the round house of Tilley.
And here awhile they rest from labour,
Rifle cast aside and sabre;
At the provisions do their worst,
With beer and soda slake their thirst;
But how they ate and how they drank,
As if each throttle were a tank--
To tell all this my pen would fail;
But even Porter turned to ale.

That night the warrior band returned,
But though their hearts with valour burned,
Not one his spurs as yet had earned.
Though hands were firm and nerves unshaken,
The Kafir foemen had saved their bacon,
And (saving the cowboy) no prisoner was taken.

* * * * *

The shades of the night
Had taken to flight,
The sun gave out all his heat and light;
When some one averred
That some one had heard
(Or perhaps had been told by some sharp little bird)
That the fir-trees which grow
In many a row,
And make ’neath our mountain so pleasant a show,
Concealed in their deepest and darkest recess
The runaway Kafirs who’d made all this mess;
To the terror and horror of those who lived near,
And who hinted they just entertained the slight fear
That between thirst and hunger--a terrible fix--
They might cut people’s throats as they’d cut their own sticks.
Away at the word goes the valiant crew,
Searching the fir forest right through and through:
“Steady!” cries Captain T----, “steady, men, steady!
Keep your eyes open--be silent and ready.”

Ha, ha, ha! there they go--
’Tis the foe; ’tis the foe--
But still not an inch of their skins dare they show.
Bang, bang! goes each gun:
Helter skelter, too, run
The Rifles, pursuing like mad or like fun--
When some one exultingly cries out “Here’s one!”

’Twas true! ’twas one! the ball had sped,
And entered the dying wretch’s head;
Forth from the wound the life-blood flowed,
And, stretched in the warriors’ very road,
A grisly baboon its carcase showed!
And the Riflemen stared,
Half puzzled, half scared,
While a private coarsely remarked, “I’m blowed.”
Thus the second day’s deeds to an end were brought,
But somehow the Kafirs were _not_ yet caught.

* * * * *

How it turned out next day
’Twere not easy to say;
But five gallant gentlemen happened to stray
Through the woods for a search, and without any fuss,
Which so often brings forth the _ridiculus mus_,
Pounced right on the runaway Kafirs and bagged them--
That is, on fourteen (quite enough to have scragged them);
And this feat all their comrades in arms pronounced lucky--
For my part, _I_ call it uncommonly “plucky.”

And thus ended the Rifle Corps Kafir campaign--
Whose like may the Rifle Corps ne’er see again,
For they’d very much trouble and very small gain.

But Cape Town all felt that, with such an array
Of valour to guard it by night and by day,
It might sleep in its bed,
And not trouble its head
About Kafirs in prison, or Kafirs who’d fled.
For myself I can vow,
If there’s ever a row,
I sha’n’t think a bit of the consequence now.
For regular regiments I care not a rap:
The Rifle Corps guards me, what _can_ spoil my nap?

_A. W. Cole._

_AN IDYL OF A PRINCE._

(NOT AFTER TENNYSON.)

If ever by chance
You should happen to glance
At a map of the world, and should come upon France,
Raise your eyes just a bit, un-
Till you have hit on,
An Island that’s known as the home of the Briton.
Now, if it weren’t wrong
To put faith in a song,
You would find from a ditty, by one Mr. Campbell,
That one fine day this island
Arose, high and dry land,
Right out of the sea--from no submarine gambol;
But was turned out by order,
Express to afford her
Assistance to Neptune in ruling the ocean,
Which may be the truth, or a mere poet’s notion.

Be this as it may--
And I don’t mean to say
I have faith in the literal truth of the lay--
She _has_ ruled the ocean a pretty long while, and
Is considered a bright little, tight little island;

And, as one thing to brag of,
Possesses a flag of
Such capital bunting, that one Thomas Dibdin
Declared as a fact--and I don’t think he fibbed in
The assertion, which every nation allows and hears--
It has braved war and tempest, unhurt, for a thousand years.
And, in spite of the seas,
Of the foes and the breeze,
It’s as good at this moment as when they first made it,--
Spotless, untattered, and not a bit faded.

To cherish this standard
She has fought, in each land, hard,
But the sea, after all, has been ever her grand card;
And the waves, as they roll
From equator to pole,
Bear fleets on their highway which never pay toll,
Being franked by this banner,
Which waves, in the manner
I’ve mentioned before, all the breezes that fan her.

I think it an error, to fancy that history
Ever records (when it’s truthful) a mystery.
The eyes of a mole
Can’t read a large scroll;
They may pick out each letter, but don’t see the whole.
The _qui currit potest_
Legere’s no test,
As those who have dipped ’neath the surface must know best.
So, though it seems queer
To children who hear
That the tight little island we’re writing of here
Has contrived to get on with such brilliant successes,--
Adding conquest to conquest, until she possesses
Much more than old Rome ever ventured to vote as
Her provinces--see _orbs veteribus notus_--
Yet one who reflects
On the matter, detects
All the secret to lie in the fact of the ocean
Receiving his child’s never-failing devotion,--
A devotion repaid
By _his_ ne’er-failing aid,
So that all the world over,
From China to Dover,
Her fleets defy foeman, and pirate, and rover,
And her shores are as happy as cows are in clover.

Now let your eyes stray
On the map, a long way
From this tight little island, until they make play
Over dreary hot lands
Of deserts and sands,
Where brave Captain Speke
Has set off to seek
For the source of the Nile, till you come, if you’ll follow me,
To a country baptized with the name of Cape Colony.
And you’ll find, near its south-western corner, stuck down
At the foot of the mountain called Table, a town.

In this town, then, there dwell,
As geographers tell,
A great many people of all sorts of hues,
Heathen, Mohammedans, Christians and Jews,
Dutchmen and Englishmen, black Mozambiquas,
Tawny Malays, and a sprinkling of Griquas,
Hottentots, Kafirs, and Negroes and others,
Who’d be puzzled to point out their fathers or mothers.

They say on the whole that the town’s rather pretty
(By the way they’ve a bishop, so call it a city);
But apt to be sleepy, and stagnant and dull,
In a kind of perpetual calm, or a lull
Of such very long lasting, that no one can form
An idea of the time when it last had a storm.
Now did you ever try on
A slumbering lion
(Of course safe in a cage, or fixed in the wrong hole)
The experiment called stirring up with a long pole?
First you tickle him gently, he stops in a snore,
Then you pummel his ribs and he utters a roar.

Then you give it him harder--a bound and a shake,
A jump at the bars which may well make you quake,
Mane and tail up on end--and the lion’s awake.
Just so they relate
How this city of late,
Being sleepy and slow as a solemn debate,
Was aroused from repose
By a fly on its nose,
In the shape of a rumour disturbing its doze.
The rumour then spread, and the faster it flew,
The more evident was it the rumour was true.
The city jumped up from its very long snooze,
Threw its nightcap aside, donned its small clothes and shoes,
And was more wide-awake than’t has ever been since
It was built--for till now it ne’er welcomed a Prince!
A Prince, then, was coming--a Prince of Blood Royal--
The son of a Queen to whom every one’s loyal;
A Prince, too, who wears the triumphant blue jacket,
To guard from affronting
That famed bit of bunting,
And pitch into the foe who shall dare to attack it.

A long while the city remained in suspense,
Hopeful, but fidgety, making pretence
Of not being excited,
But looking delighted,
As a boy newly breeched, or a cit newly knighted.
Grand preparations
For illuminations.
Fêtes and regattas, and balls and reviews,
Ev’ry one asking, “Well, what’s the last news?”

Ladies all crowding, besieging the shops,
Buying dresses so grand that their brilliancy whops
(As Jonathan says) all description, and gloves
And wreaths that they fondly pronounce “perfect loves,”
And lace-bordered lawn for each sweet little nose,
And the finest of pinky-white gauzy silk hose,
And white satin shoes for their dear little toes.

Volunteers, too,
Green, scarlet, and blue,
Furbish their uniforms up to look new,
Polish up bayonets, rifles, and sabres,
Looking forward with pride to their arduous labours,
And twist their moustaches with pleasure prophetic
Of how they will look--with the aid of cosmetic.

All things have an end, as experience teaches
(Except crinoline, p’raps, or Upper House speeches);
So at length the suspense was all over--at last
The season of mere expectation was past,
And in Simon’s Bay,
No very great way
From the city, all snug, the _Euryalus_ lay.
In Adderley Street
Citizens meet,
Staring at telegrams, hauling out flags,
Stowed safely away in their canvas bags,
Guessing to-morrow will be a grand holiday,
Vowing they’ll try, too, to make it a jolly day.
Cabmen and coolies,
Whose general rule is
To get in the way when they’ve got nothing to do,
Assemble in groups
At street-corners or stoeps,
And stop up the road when you try to get through.
And little black boys
Kick up a noise
By way of evincing their innocent joys.

* * * * *

The morrow came, up rose the sun,
And who hath seen a brighter one?
No cloud to obscure a single ray,
A clear, warm, brilliant summer’s day.
A day right worthy of its scene,
A people’s homage to their Queen,
In hailing with their heartfelt joy
Her darling child--her sailor boy!
The morrow has come;
Trumpet and drum,
Streamers and pennants,
Houses empty of tenants,
Cannon and bells,--
Everything tells
Of a day that’s begun
Of rejoicing and fun.
The city’s awake now, as sure as a gun,
And looks almost as bright as that glorious sun.

It’s past half-past one, and it’s drawing near two--
The hour he’s to come, if the programme speak true.
Chevalier Duprat, with his stout bombardiers,
Is preparing salutes to astonish our ears.
The Rifle Corps, too, with their dark-green and black,
Looking regular heroes, and shooters called “crack,”
With their soldier-like colonel--right man in the right place,
Though the steed that he rides isn’t such as he _might_ grace--
Line the streets in full force,
With also the horse,
Than whom none would fight more--
The brave blue and white corps,
With helmets of silver--such regular shiners--
And the scarlet and gold of the sappers-and-miners.
And last, but not least, with their breeks in zigzag stripes,
The gallant Scotch corps, with their capital bagpipes.
To these add the regulars--regular bricks--
The brave Fifty-ninth, with its flag inscribed LIX.
(And so it does everything--pardon the pun,
Its atrociously bad, but it’s true as the sun.)

At length one hears,
From the bombardiers,
The banging of cannon, which serves for their cheers;
And the Prince with his retinue really appears
Over Castle-bridge, past Caledon Square,
Of all, save stones and mud-holes, bare.
Beside the parade, with its stunted firs,
Which scarcely the sign of a breeze now stirs,
Through a street where the breeze pretty frequently plays her part,
Now known as Darling Street--_ci-devant_ Keizersgracht.

The Prince had arrived, and no princely race
Showed ever a nobler youthful face;
So full of beauty, so full of grace,
His chestnut hair, his large blue eye,
His features calm, wherein seem to lie
Gentleness, intellect, majesty.
A prince right worthy his royal name,
His lineage proud, his father’s fame;
Right worthy to wear the glorious blue,
And fight ’neath the banner of England too--
The mightiest banner that ever flew!

And the motley crowd
All shouts aloud,
“Huzzah” and “hooray,”
And “_Daar komaan hy_.”
And they bless him, and praise him, and most of them pray
That the time may arrive, when he’s got to majority,
He may come here and handle the reins of authority.
Some people, it’s true,
Are inclined to look blue,
For they don’t see a crown, and they fear it’s a “do;”
And they’re hard to convince
That a real royal prince
Isn’t born with a crown
Firmly wedged down
To the top of his skull,
Like the deck of a hull;
But he sits on his horse like a prince, like a man,
Sits as only a thoroughbred Englishman can.

In Adderley Street a big archway is seen,
Symbol of triumph, and smothered in green,
Flags waving gaily above it, and near
Crowds of all sorts of people to see and to cheer;
Then coming next on
The house of the sexton,
Past the church, and the banks,
And the building that ranks
Midst the finest of Cape Town attempts architectural,
Though the order that claims it is purely conjectural,
Up to the gateway
At foot of the straight way
Of oaks now all leafless, and passed the Museum
With its curious contents (if the Prince could but see ’em),
To Government House, where His Highness alights,
And sees, lucky Prince, the best sight of all sights,
Such a bevy of fair ones, in costumes so neat,
All murmuring, “How handsome! how charming! how sweet.”
I doubt whether prince ever had such a treat.

And next the reception! How tell of the pushing,
The fishing out cards, and the squeezing and crushing,
The bows that are made and the looks that are given,
The gorgeous “get ups” of those who have striven
To display their own grandeur as well as their loyalty,
By wonderful ties to astonish young royalty!
And the ladies, the dears,
Abandoning fears,
Leaving benches outside
Through the windows they glide,
Rush into the chamber like fairies demented,
Resolved to be present--though not yet presented.
And all the men swear,
And the ladies declare,
The former “by Jove,” and the latter “’pon honour,”
That to look on that handsome young face is a _bonheur_,
So great that they feel at that moment they doubly can
Pity a people that’s only republican.

The sun’s gone to bed,
And gas lamps instead,
And lamps blue, white, and red,
Such a flood of light shed
As drive notions of darkness clean out of your head.
Pictures, devices,
Like very large slices
From very large twelfth-cakes, illustrate the crisis.
A lady of very extensive dimensions,
With a helmet and spear of most warlike pretensions,
But without crinoline,
Is everywhere seen
Sitting down on her shield by a sea very green;
And lending a hand
To assist to the land
A tall, thin, blue gentleman, dressed very grand.

And one in an able way
Represents Table Bay,
And a very large dolphin with greenest of tails,
And fins up on end, p’r’aps to serve him for sails,
And another blue gentleman stuck on its back,
Though you’d fancy yourself you’d be off in a crack
If you ventured to sea on so fishy a smack.
And mermaids are there,
With long flowing hair,
And their scaly green tails sticking up in the air;
And Neptune with trident, with mighty long beard,
Hails a nice little midshipman, looking half “skeer’d.”
Stores, mansions, and shops--all’s a blaze of bright light,
And crowds--black, white, tawney--look on with delight
Save where the long range
Of the Merchants’ Exchange
Is all in the dark, and the people that stare up
Hear that somehow the electric light _won’t_ give a flare-up.

There’s the morning gun!
There’s the rising sun!
Put out all the lamps--the fun’s over and done.
The city’s done all that a good city can,
For one day, at least, has turned out to a man.
There’s more work before her of much the same sort,
All sorts of revelry, all sorts of sport.
But my muse for a time flits away from these shores
To take breath, or, more _nauticé_, “lie on her oars.”
But she cries,
As she flies
To her home in the skies,
As she ever shall cry till her good lungs shall fail her,
“Hail, Son of Victoria! hail, Royal Sailor!”

MORAL.

By the way, as she flew,
I may say, _entre nous_,
Something fell from her pocket: it looked like a screw
Of tobacco; but though she’s got capital jaws,
I never yet found that her ladyship “chaws.”
I picked it up carefully, undid the roll,
And found nothing in it except a small scroll,
Which is just in these words--for what I thought a “quid” is--
“Happy the Nation Whose Princes Are Middies!”

_A. W. Cole._

_A CHRISTMAS APPARITION._

A BIL-IOUS LEGEND.

The day was long sped,
The stars overhead
For three hours or longer their glimmer had shed,
Since the sun had retired remarkably red,
As if the Atlantic had flown to his head,
When Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed.

It was Christmas night,
And a beautiful sight
Was each little star with his modest light,
As if half afraid
Of lending his aid
To the glorious canopy heaven displayed.

Mr. Timothy Tadpole had dined that day
In the ancient and orthodox Christmas way,
Turkey and sausages, roast beef and ham,
Plum-pudding and mince-pies, he’d managed to cram,
With custards and syllabubs, jellies and jam;
And claret and sherry,
And champagne in very
Large glasses, which every one voted the right tap;
And port which they dish up,
And call it a “bishop,”
With lemons and nutmegs[19] by way of a “nightcap.”
And many a toast,
From the health of the host
To the health of the fair one each tippler loved most,
He had drunk, with a swallow few mortals can boast--
And “Hip, hip, hooray!”
He had shouted that day
In a highly excited convivial way,
’Mid Bacchanal ditties, and protests of scorning
To think of retiring to rest before morning.

So when Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed
An ill-natured chronicler might p’r’aps have said
That he carried a little too much in his head--
An uncommon event, too, since Timothy’s brains
Were computed to weigh such a very few grains
That in Timothy’s head you’d have found them as soon
As a pair of dried peas in the Nassau Balloon.

And while Timothy lay,
In a restless way,
Turning, and twisting, and kicking, and rolling,
That you couldn’t suppose
He’d a bit of repose,
The bell of St. George’s was grimly tolling!

Slowly, deeply, boomed the bell--
Midnight hour! it seemed the knell
Of hopes, joys, griefs, pains, pleasures dead,
Gone with the short-lived day that was fled;
Another day from the tiny span
That makes the weal and woe of man!
Yes, twelve at night--
That hour of fright
When ghosts pop out of their graves in white,
And glide and slink
Through keyhole or chink,
Or up the chimney or down the sink;
And frighten poor sinners, who quake as they tell
Of the terrible sight--and the brimstone smell!

As Timothy snored, and kicked, and rolled,
And the bell of St. George’s grimly tolled,
Just as the last stroke died on the air
The candle emitted a bluish glare,
(For gentlemen coming home late at night
Often forget to extinguish the light;)
It flickered, and spluttered, and out it went
With a pop, and a hiss, and a nasty scent.

And as it went out a ghost walked in!
An orthodox ghost, with a churchyard grin;
From the head to the feet
Wrapped in a sheet
As white as pure snow--so that, if a man _can_ guess,
You’d fancy the ghost had a capital laundress.

Yet the ghost, though pale, wasn’t lanky or lean,
Like all ghosts that I’ve ever yet heard of or seen,
But had rather a corpulent, greasy, fat look,
Like an alderman’s ghost, or the ghost of a cook.

As the ghost walked in poor Timothy woke,
And the ghostly vision on Timothy broke;
And Timothy’s eyeballs glare and stare,
And up on end goes Timothy’s hair,
And Timothy shivers with agitation,
And his body’s quite damp with perspiration--
A common effect of consternation.

But as he lies quaking and shivering, still,
With a resolute air,
He cries, “Who’s there?”
And the vision solemnly answers “Bill!”
Bill! Bill who? Bill Smith? Bill Jones?
For Bill’s a prænomen each family owns;
So Timothy tries with might and main
To guess which Bill, but all in vain;
Till, shaking with horror through and through,
He faintly stammers out “Bill who?”

The ghostly accents seem to fill
The room as they answer, “Christmas Bill!
I’m the ghost of the butcher’s bill! nothing can lay me:
I’ll haunt you by day and by night till you pay me!”

Timothy Tadpole groans with fright,
And tries to shut out the horrid sight,
When lo! a new ghost pops into light;
And the ghost that now burst on the wretched sinner
Was very much paler and very much thinner
(Though afterwards Tadpole remarked it as “rum,” he
Spoke in a voice that was husky and crummy).
As solemn and grave as an undertaker
He stalked forth and said, “_I’m_ the bill of the baker;
I’ll dog you by night--I’ll settle your hash--
I’ll never be still till you hand out the cash.”
Again poor Timothy Tadpole groans,
And turns and wriggles his weary bones,
Trying to shut out the dreadful vision--
When, alas and alack! there’s a _new_ apparition!

This ghost had an air so dapper and nice, he
Looked for a spirit uncommonly spicy;
But he turned a pitiless glance on Tim,
As if with a look he’d annihilate _him_,
And in accents severe cried, “I’d have you to know, sir,
That _I_ am the Christmas bill of the grocer!
You’ve eaten and stuffed, and you’ve had your fill,
And now let us see what you’ve got in the till:
I’ll polish you off in a manner that I know
If you don’t pretty speedily fork out the rhino!”

But alas and alack! a new one appears,
The tailor’s bill, armed with the goose and the shears,
And the bill of the bootmaker, gliding together;
The latter quite “larking,”
And pertly remarking,
“Come, dub up, old fellow, there’s nothing like leather.”
And the bill of the wine merchant, troubled with hiccups,
And the bill of the hosier for collars called “stick-ups.”

And round about his bed they flew
Hand in hand, this ghostly crew;
And they tweaked his nose,
And tickled his toes,
And rained on his cheeks hard pinches and blows;
And seemed to suppose it a capital lark, as
They stamped and jumped on his aching carcase.

And aye as they went,
The air was rent
With their shouting and yelling, and thus they gave vent:--
“Pay us you must,
Down with the dust;
None of your “kites,”
We _will_ have our rights;
We’ll plague you and pinch you by days and by nights;
We’ll grind you, and bind you, and force you to settle:
None of your promises--out with the metal!”

And Timothy vows that he ne’er heard before as
Awful a noise as this terrible chorus!
He writhed and he wriggled, he twisted and turned;
His tongue was on fire--his head, how it burned!
He struggled and kicked, gave a desperate roar
And a plunge--and came heels over head on the floor.
The chorus is done:
One by one
The ghosts have slipped off, having finished their fun.

And Timothy creeps into bed again,
Free from his terror, but _not_ free from pain.
The shades of the night like the spirits are flitting,
Grey dawn on the tops of the mountains is sitting,
And under the window a small bantam cock
Is crowing--in fact, it is just four o’clock,
As Timothy, spite of his terrors and bruises,
Yawns, shakes up his pillow, and placidly snoozes!

MORAL.

Don’t drink like a fish, and don’t feed like a glutton;
Don’t forget to cash up for your beef and your mutton,
Your bread and your sugar, your wine and your Allsop;
In short, _all_ your bills, and I hope they’re a small crop.
If a tradesman you rob
You act like a snob,
And you’ll find out, moreover, you’ve done a bad job.
So seize on the present,
Pay up and look pleasant;
Think of Timothy Tadpole--that terrible sight there--
A legion of bills makes a deuce of a nightmare!

_A. W. Cole._

_FREEDOM’S HOME._