THE PSALM OF STRIFE.
(Being what the Yeoman said to the Psalmist.)
Tell me not in ceaseless rumours
That we soon are going home,
Just to cure our bitter humours,
While upon the veldt we roam.
War is real, and war is earnest,
And Pretoria warn't the goal,
Out thou cam'st, but when returnest
Is not known to any soul.
Forward, fighting, smoking, chewing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
And arriving—just too late.
I fled.[Back to Contents]
Invitations—and a Concert.
Wednesday, February 6th, 1901.
Another week has rolled away; a week's march nearer home anyway, and like the great MacMahon, I am here and here I sticks. The most thrilling event of the past seven days has been the sudden and unexpected reception of mails, after having abandoned all hope, and a parcel which arrived in Pretoria for me during the first week in September.