(For the use of British Soldiers on the Veldt.)
The night has gone, the golden sun has riz,
The khaki men have all begun to friz,
Cleared is the mushroom camp of yesterday,
And forth they go upon the Empire's biz.
Oh! hopes of home that with each morning rise,
Oh! wondrous legends which wild minds devise;
One thing is certain, and the rest is lies,
The Yeoman, once enlisted, often sighs.
Oh! fool to cry "The Boer is on the run,"
He is, we know, and ain't forgot his gun;
And often from the rocky kopje side
He stops and pots—your mess is minus one.
I sometimes think that nought whiffs on the wind
As strong as where some dying steed reclined;
That any casual stranger passing by
The place, if asked, again could eas'ly find.
Alas! that Mausers are not turned to hoes,
That Christmas comes, and with the pudding goes;
And we stick here for ever and a day,
When we return (or if) who knows—WHO KNOWS?
Oh! Pard, could thou and I with Holmes conspire
To round De Wet up with his force entire;
Would we not smash it all to bits—and then
Get somewhere nearer to our heart's desire.
A pipe o' baccy 'neath a leafy tree,
A recent mail from far across the sea,
No one to worry for an hour or two,
And veldt, indeed, were Paradise to me.
And, lo, 'tis vain the generals to blame,
Keep boldly sticking at the ancient game;
And if to-day you are upon the veldt,
To-morrow it will also be the same.
Each morn's reveillé comes like some nightmare,
Sleepy you rise and pack your kit, and swear;
Then mount your saddled steed with gun in hand,
And hasten off, you know not why or where.