BY SIMON'S BAY
In the mountain fold
By the green-blue bay,
Where the waves are flecked
By the evening gold
At the close of day;
And the berg is decked
With a film of grey,
And the mountain's frown
On the darkening town—
My mem'ries stray.
By the fringing beach,
By the restless wave,
Is the straggling town,
And its limits reach
From the highest place
By the mountain's crown
To the mountain's base—
Where the waters lave.
Hopeful Town
By the Cape of Hope;
By the sandy slope
Where the Hills look down;
By the wind-swept kloof—
On the barrack, grim:
On the whitened roof,
On the garden trim:
On the restless Bay
Where the sea-fowl whirls
And the spume-dust swirls
To the Zephyr's whim—
At the close of day.
Darkening Bay,
Where ever lay
Alert to slip
From leashes taut
A blood-flecked hound
In the pale lean ship;
And where the sound
Of echoing boom
From far away
Is a full-mouthed bay,
As the quarry's found.
Mournful bay
In green and grey,
I've thought on you
This many a day.
THE SQUIRE
Sir John of the Isles,
'E stood on 'is lands,
An' looked round 'is large estates:
The lands of waste, an' the lands of corn;
The rose-clad lands, an' the lands of thorn;
An' 'is many gun guarded gates.
Sir John of the Isles,
'E sez to T.A.,
'E sez to T.A., sez 'e,
'Oh, you an' your chum, the sailor-man,
Must scour the country as far as you can
For you are gamekeepers to me.'
Sir John of the Isles,
'E sez to the swells—
The Downing Street frock-coated crew—
'You are stewards of mine, on Colonial land,
An' my tenants, with seventeen guns an' a band,
Shall pay their respects unto you!'
Sez John of the Isles
To one of the swells,
'Near the lands where you're goin' to Be
Is the dusty estate of a crotchety cuss,
'Oo from time to time causes a great deal of fuss,
For 'e thinks 'e's better nor me.'
Sez John of the Isles,
'The tenants 'e rules
Are a very peculiar lot.
'Is bailifs are 'Ollanders, chock full of guile,
An' they run the estate in a Guy-foxy style.
Which is Dynamite, Treason and Plot!'
Sez John of the Isles,
'Don't mind 'is remarks,
For the land which is 'is—it was mine;
But 'e took it to Law in a court rather grim,
An' a kopje-'id jury decided for 'im!
An' awarded the land as a fine.'
Sir John of the Isles,
'E sez to the swell,
'You're a gentleman, breedin' an birth,
An' in case of a row, without losin' your 'ead,
You may take my gamekeepers, an' mark 'is land red!
On the survey-map of the Earth!'
THE SEA-NATION
We rose, a people of the sea,
Nursed by the wind, and rocked by wave.
Our hard, rock-founded history,
Was born from stories of our brave.
And northern ice-blasts steeled our frames
When war was but the best of games.
We saw a Roman Empire fall,
And fell; but falling, learned to rise.
We heard the voice of Progress call,
And in our folly we were wise:
When Briton, Saxon, Norman, Dane,
Bequeathed their progeny the main.
And conquered joined with conqueror;
And Norman fire, with Saxon zeal
Combined; we swept the world before
The twanging bow, and clanging steel.
Tyrants unmurm'ring bore our yoke,
And braggarts thought before they spoke.
Then Iron Might took Right to wife;
And lo! our liberty was born!
We revelled in the newer life
When King was mated by a pawn.
Men lived between, of mighty worth;
From Montfort's death to Cromwell's birth.
We bore the arrogance of kings,
But bravèd death in fear of God.
We rose from great, to greater things.
The weak grew potent at our nod.
And nations watched the scales of Fate,
To see where England threw her weight!
We took our seed to other climes,
And from it sprang by divers seas,
An Oak—that grew among the Limes!
An Oak—among the Blue-gum trees!
The Cactus left the land because
The Acorn brought its ordered laws.
And like a giant, bearing stings
Of gnats, who joy to see him wince,
We stand—the envy of the kings
Despised by every petty prince!
Who know, that while enduring yet,
We bear—but we do not forget.
We lived, and live! The world shall see
An inextinguishable flame.
The nations fade; but we shall be!
When Gaul and Teuton are a name!
For us the seven seas in one:
For landlocked hordes—oblivion.
NATURE FAILS
You can eas'ly understand
That the green of medder-land
Doesn't strike the bloke that 'as to push the roller;
An' Nature at the best,
When you put 'er to the test,
Undiluted, is a very poor consoler.
An' the blue of summer skies
'As no beauties for the eyes
Of defaulters on parade in marchin' order;
An' the rainiest of morns
Brings no feelin's—'cept to corns,
Of a feller pickin' oakum with a warder.
Wot's the beauty of the spot,
When you're bein' drilled with shot?
Wot is Nature when you're checked for bein' dirty?
An' eternity's a blank
To a feller on the crank,
When ev'ry blessed minute seems like thirty!
Bein' punished for your deeds,
On fatig' a-pickin' weeds,
Can a bloke admire the beauties of the clover?
Does the sunset on the 'ills
Give defaulters any thrills
Except to know the day is nearly over.
Bein' frog-marched to the clink,
Does a feller stop to think
On the grass before 'is eyes so swif'ly runnin',
'Ow that ev'ry single blade
Is most wonderfully made
Wiv a skill beyond all artificial cunnin'?
An' you cannot pant for wars
When you're scrubbin' barrack floors,
Or get inspired on bully-beef an' biscuit:
It requires a poet's soul
When a feller's cartin' coal
To think 'isself in danger, an' to risk it.
Does a feller care a D—
For the friskin' of a lamb,
When 'e 'as to watch the friskin' thro' a gratin'?
Does the lowin' of the 'erds,
Or the twitterin' of the birds,
Soothe a feller when for punishment 'e's waitin'?
L' ENVOI
In the deepest pits of 'Ell,
Where the worst defaulters dwell
(Charcoal devils used as fuel as you require 'em),
There's some lovely coloured rays,
Pyrotechnical displays:
But you can't expect the burnin' to admire 'em!
THE COLONEL'S GARDEN
There are gardins, an' there's gardins,
Some are good, an' some are not.
There are gardins in a glass 'ouse
Where the air is allus 'ot.
But whether on a winder-ledge,
Or in a flower-pot,
I'll back our Colonel's gardin
For to lick the bilin' lot.
There are gardners, an' there's gardners,
Some are great, an' some are small.
Some could change a bloomin' brickfield
To a Covent Gard'n ball!
There are some 'oo couldn't 'ardly
Fix a creeper to a wall!
But I'll back our Colonel's gardner,
Jerry Jordan, 'gin 'em all!
O the flowers they are lovely!
An' the roses they are fair;
An' the daisies they are winkin'
Thro' a lash of maiden-'air!
An' the lilies, tall an' naked—
Tho' it's little that they care!
An' the garden—under Jerry—
Is a place beyond compare!
There are flowers bloomin' early,
There are flowers bloomin' late;
There is 'oneysuckle climbin'
On the porchway, by the gate.
There's some cress an' mustard growin'
On a commissairy plate!
O the garden it is lovely—
That's when Jerry's on the straight!
* * * * *
O the garden it's neglected.
An' the pinks 'ave ceased to pink,
An' the petals they are droppin',
An' the blooms they bend and sink.
O the flowers they are fadin'
Now that Jerry's took to drink!
O the flowers they're neglected—
Jerry Jordan's in the clink!
For the flowers will not blossom,
An' they don't give out no smells,
The convul'vus it is weepin'
From its verigated bells.
An' the lily's in hysterics,
An' she faints away in spells:
O there's weepin', an' there's wailin'—
Jerry Jordan's doin' cells!
* * * * *
O the path is rolled an' gravelled,
An' the gardin's fresh as rain,
An' the weeds that strewed the borders
They no longer there remain.
An' the flowers they are smilin',
For they're out of all their pain;
An' the bees they 'um for gladness—
Jerry Jordan's out again!