Another.
A Governor felt it his duty to go
To arrange matters ’twixt one King John and his foe,
Between whom had arisen bloodthirsty dissensions,
But t’wards this Boer King he’d the kindest intentions.
John couldn’t have treated him worse had he been
The agent of Moshesh instead of the Queen.
Not a single gun popped off a sensation louder—
(Perhaps that’s because he was hard up for powder)—
But, for all that was done by this potentate bold,
Sir Philip too might have stopped “out in the cold,”
For the welcome John gave him a name comes in handy,
The spirit he showed to his guest was Boer-Brandy.
Three months had passed by, and King John, now at peace,
From work and for office obtained a re-lease;
So primed well with blue-blacks he thought he’d go down
To spend them and his holidays there in Cape Town.
When the Governor heard John was coming that way,
He said, “’Tis my turn at ‘reception’ to play.
Let those guns which since Duke Alfred came have been mute
Be charged to discharge him a royal salute,
Cripps! lion King John, like a real kingly brute;
And soldiers! be sure you do the right thing,
Let an orderly tend this disorderly king!
Get rolls of tobacco his pipe well to cram,
And lay in a stock of Cape smoke and schiedam,
And order some horse hides, first hand, from our knacker’s,
To make him a pair of right regal Boer crackers—
He’ll go to bed in them, but that doesn’t matter;
Put him up in my bed, ’twill his vanity flatter,
I can sleep on the sofa or hearthrug instead—
We must heap coals of fire on King Johnny’s head.
He has shown me how friends are received in the Free
State; I’ll show him how foes are received here by me.
Moral.
’Twill be strange now if all this “reception” and rout
Should end in John’s getting the “dirty kick out.”
W. H. Bidwell.
Uitenhage, 24th June 1869.
WELCOME.
Let gladness fill our British homes,
All hearts rejoice! a victor comes:—
Not like the conquerors of yore
With laurels stained by human gore.
Let earth a floral welcome yield,
No devastation marks the field
Whereon his victory was gained,
His triumph’s peaceful and unstained.
Let little children’s voices rise,
For no discordant orphans cries
Shall mar their glee. His deeds, though great,
And pregnant with the will of fate,
Are heralds of a happier day,
And pure and innocent as they.