'When we came to this country,
'Twas but a barren plain;
But the honest hand of labour
Was rewarded for its pain.
We found the precious metal,
And of it we have great store;
But Britain came to rob us
As she often done before.
As she thought to do before,
As she thought to do before;
But Britain comes to rob us,
As she often done before.'
'Those Boers can't be blamed, as you might understand;
They are trying to free their own native land,
Where they toil night and day by the sweat of their brow,
Like the farmers in Ireland that follow the plough.
Farewell to Old Ireland, we are now going away,
To fight the brave Boers in South Africa;
To fight those poor farmers we are not inclined:
God be with you, Old Ireland, we are leaving behind.'
Some verses—'The Boer's Prayer'—that I have not seen on a ballad-sheet, but in a weekly paper, give better expression to this feeling of farmer sympathy:—
'My back is to the wall;
Lo! here I stand.
O Lord, whate'er befall,
I love this land!
'This land that I have tilled,
This land is mine;
Would, Lord, that Thou hadst willed,
This heart were Thine!
'This land to us Thou gave
In days of old;
They seek to make a grave
Or field of gold!
'To us, O Lord, Thy hand,
Put forth to save!
Give us, O Lord, this land
Or give a grave!'
'A New Song for the Boers' says:—
'Hark! to the curses ringing
From all smitten lands;
In sob and wail, they tell the tale
Of England's blood-red hands.