The Poetry of South Africa

THE POETRY OF SOUTH AFRICA. Ballantyne Press BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON

COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY A. WILMOT LONDON SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON CAPE TOWN J. C. JUTA & CO. 1887


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.
“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!