The Poetry of South Africa

Various

The Poetry of South Africa

Published by Good Press, 2022

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EAN 4064066232900

Table of Contents

PREFACE.

THE SMOUSE.

POEMS.

THE EMIGRANTS.

THE BECHUANA BOY.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

EVENING RAMBLES.

THE LION HUNT.

THE LION AND THE GIRAFFE.

THE DESOLATE VALLEY.

THE CORANNA.

SONG OF THE WILD BUSHMAN.

THE CAPTIVE OF CAMALÚ.

THE BROWN HUNTER’S SONG.

THE BUSHMAN.

THE CAPE OF STORMS.

THE HOTTENTOT.

THE CAFFER.

THE GHONA WIDOW’S LULLABY.

THE KOSA.

MAKANNA’S GATHERING.

THE INCANTATION.

THE CAFFER COMMANDO.

THE ROCK OF RECONCILEMENT.

THE FORESTER OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND. A SOUTH AFRICAN BORDER BALLAD.

THE EMIGRANT’S CABIN AT THE CAPE. AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.

THE VOLUNTEERS OF ENGLAND. BY A COLONIST.

THE DEAR OLD LAND.

THE FUNERAL IN THE ABBEY.

A FAREWELL TO ENGLISH FRIENDS.

A MISSIONARY’S LAST FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.

A REMINISCENCE OF 1820.

PAST AND PRESENT.

A SOUTH AFRICAN WILDERNESS.

A SUNRISE THOUGHT AT COVE ROCK.

AN OCEAN SUNSET.

A SIGHT FROM THE SHORE.

THE THUNDERSTORM AT BATHURST.

A MORNING WISH FOR A FRIEND.

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

THE LITTLE SHELL AT COVE ROCK.

A TRIBUTE OF SYMPATHY TO THE DEFENDERS OF GLEN LYNDEN.

OUR BOYS.

IN THE DROUGHT LANDS OF SOUTH AFRICA. THE RAIN.

THE LANDING OF THE BRITISH SETTLERS OF 1820. (Written on occasion of the celebration of the Settlers’ Jubilee in Grahamstown, in 1870.)

IN THE COUNTRY OF MANKORAAN. (NORTH OF THE VAAL RIVER, DECEMBER, 1882.)

DRINK.

SOUTH AFRICA REDIVIVA.

THE BEAUTFUL ISLAND OF DREAMS.

CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.

GOOD HOPE.

ODE. (From Horace. — Lib. ii. Od. 18.)

AFTER A STORM.

AMMAP AND GRIET. A LEGEND OF THE ’NOSOP.

SONNETS OF THE CAPE.

I. GOVERNMENT GARDENS, CAPE TOWN.

II. NIGHT.

THE FADED PHOTOGRAPH. TO MY FRIEND, DAVID C——, BATH, SOMERSETSHIRE.

EVELEEN.

FAREWELL TO MADEIRA.

FAREWELL TO FIFTY-FIVE.

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.

SHOULD IT BE ACCORDING TO THY MIND. (Job xxxiv 33.)

TO GRAAFF REINET.

HYMN. WRITTEN DURING THE ZULU WAR.

THE LAMENT OF THE GUTTER LATELY FILLED UP BY AN UNPOETICAL MUNICIPALITY.

MY SALTED STEED.

A ROMANCE FROM THE FIELDS. A COLONIAL BALLAD.

THE FLIGHT OF THE AMAKOSA. A RIFLE CORPS LEGEND.

AN IDYL OF A PRINCE. (NOT AFTER TENNYSON.)

MORAL.

A CHRISTMAS APPARITION. A BIL-IOUS LEGEND.

MORAL.

FREEDOM’S HOME.

THE GALLANT TEUTON.

THE SUNNY HILLS OF AFRICA.

THE SOUTHERN CROSS. AN ODE.

HON. WILLIAM PORTER, C.M.G. AN ELEGY.

ODE ON THE BRITISH SETTLERS’ YEAR OF JUBILEE. NAM QUI HŒC DICUNT, PALAM OSTENDUNT SE PATRIAM QUŒRERE.

DIVES REDIVIVUS.

THE BURGHERS’ GATHERING.

STORM IN TUGELA VALLEY, NATAL.

THE NATAL GOLD DIGGINGS. TO GREENHORNS.

NATURE. A DAY ON THE HILLS, IN NATAL.

CONTENTMENT. FOR MY MOTHER.

NOT HERE.

REVELATION XXII. VERSIFIED.

EZEKIEL XLVII. 1-12.

CHANGE.

HEAVENLY FRIENDSHIP.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

THE DEFENCE OF RORKE’S DRIFT. JANUARY 22-23, 1879.

RORKE’S DRIFT. JANUARY 22, 1879.

BEFORE ULUNDI.

THE BARON’S ADVENTURE. (A FACT.)

SOUTH AFRICAN COURTSHIP.

THE BETTER LAND. AFTER SHEMANS.

DOLLY. A REMEMBRANCE.

GOING HOME. FROM THE TRANSVAAL TO ENGLAND.

THE OXFORD BIBLE. ON WORN-OUT SAILS BEING USED AS MATERIAL FOR THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER ON WHICH BIBLES ARE PRINTED.

THE LAST MISSION OF THE SAILS.

THE WORN-OUT SAILS.

IN MEMORIAM.

EPITAPH ON A DIAMOND DIGGER.

AFRIC’S GREETING TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF WALES, ON HER WEDDING DAY, MARCH 10, 1863.

ROBERT GODLINTON.

THE DIAMOND DIGGER. ON FINDING HIS FIRST LARGE DIAMOND. (From the drama I. D. B.)

THE LAST OF THE BOWKERS. A DIRGE.

THE DRUNKARD’S CHILD. FOUNDED ON ONE OF J. B. GOUGH’S THRILLING ANECDOTES.

THE ANGEL’S MESSAGE.

THE CHURL OF THE PERIOD; AND ANOTHER. A LEGEND OF THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.

The Churl.

Another.

Moral.

WELCOME.

PRECEPTS FOR YOUNG AND OLD.

BE KIND TO ONE ANOTHER.

PADDY’S LOVE SYMPTOMS. FOR MUSIC.

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY OF HUMBUG.

PLATTEKLIP CASCADE.

THE PORT ELIZABETH PYRAMID.

IN MEMORIAM. THE REV. R. TEMPLETON, WHO DIED IN THE ZUURBERG FOREST, JANUARY 1886.

LORD! WHAT IS MAN THAT THOU ART MINDFUL OF HIM!

THE RHYME OF THE OX-WAGON. (A MODEST PENDANT TO PRINGLE’S AFAR IN THE DESERT.)

THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE. A PATRIOTIC SONG.

THE ERYTHRINA TREE. A CAROL OF THE WOODS.

PREFACE.

Table of Contents

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.

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"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.

POEMS.

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THE EMIGRANTS.

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...

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.

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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