There was heard the dread Maxim’s rattle
And thundering cannon’s loud roar,
But Jameson found in this battle
His match in the Transvaal Boer.
I can tell you it wasn’t a trifle,
That search for a hole to creep through
While the Boers plied unerring the rifle,
Taught the raiders to die or to do.
They made tracks for the Gold Reef City,
Expecting their jobber friends out,
But those cowards, whom brave men pity,
Had noticed their plot ‘up the spout.’
They distinctly could hear the guns rattle,
They could help. Did they ever try?
No. They left their poor dupes to do battle,
To be driven about, and to die.
The raiders had supped, drank and slumbered,
And were fully prepared for the fray;
They knew that they were not outnumbered,
But their conscience caused them dismay.
They’re not very considerate or tender,
But their hearts sunk down to the boot,
And they had to accept a surrender
In lieu of gold, glory and loot.
I’m sure they were wrong—worse than madmen,
And I think at the Judgment Day,
When God sifts the good from the bad men,
For themselves they’ll have little to say.
They were wrong, but they are not sorry,
They’ve caused innocent blood to flow,
And the men who joined such a foray,
Unrepentant, to Satan must go.
Gert Dikkop.
Basterland, Feb. 1896.
After Steve had finished reading, the smiling and laughter-loving Scotchman burst into a hearty laugh.
‘Very good; very good indeed; ha, ha!’ he laughed. ‘I should like to see Austin’s face if he should read this; ha, ha! It certainly has the merit of truth which Austin’s poem lacks.’
After some further conversation Steve’s guest left him, giving him a hearty invitation to dine with him the following day.