But come, let’s crown the banquet with some wine,
What will you drink? Champagne? Port? Claret? Stein?
Well—not to tease you with a thirsty jest,
Lo, there our only vintage stands confest,
In that half-aum upon the spigot-rack.
And, certes, though it keeps the old kaap smaak,
The wine is light and racy; so we learn,
In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne.
—Let’s pledge this cup “to all our friends,” Fairbairn!
F.—Well, I admit, my friend, your dinner’s good.
Springbok and porcupine are dainty food;
That lordly paauw was roasted to a turn;
And, in your country fruits, and Cape Sauterne,
The wildish flavour’s really—not unpleasant;
And I may say the same of gnu and pheasant.
—But—Mrs. Pringle ... shall I have the pleasure ...?
Miss Brown, ... some wine?—(These quaighs are quite a treasure)
—What! leave us now? I’ve much to ask of you ...
But since you will go—for an hour adieu.
[Exeunt Ladies.
But, Pringle—“à nos moutons revenons”—
Cui bono’s still the burden of my song—
Cut off, with these good ladies, from society,
Of savage life you soon must feel satiety:
The Mind requires fit exercise and food,
Not to be found ’mid Afric’s desert rude.
And what avail the spoils of wood and field,
The fruits or vines your fertile valleys yield,
Without that higher zest to crown the whole—
“The feast of Reason and the flow of Soul?”
—Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men;
But can the comforts of your wattled den,
Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks suffice
For one who once seemed finer joys to prize?
—When, erst, like Virgil’s swains, we used to sing
Of streams and groves, and “all that sort of thing,”
The spot we meant for our “poetic den”
Was always within reach of books and men;
By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side,
With gifted friends within an easy ride;
Besides our college chum, the parish priest;
And the said den with six good rooms at least.—
Here! save for her who shares and soothes your lot,
You might as well squat in a Caffer’s cot!
Come, now, be candid: tell me, my dear friend,
Of your aspiring aims is this the end?
Was it for nature’s wants, fire, shelter, food,
You sought this dreary, soulless solitude?
Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind,
Your native land, your early friends resigned?
As if, believing with insane Rousseau
Refinement the chief cause of human woe,
You meant to realise that raver’s plan,
And be a philosophic Bosjesman!—
Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide—
You sought this den from disappointed pride.
P.—You’ve missed the mark, Fairbairn: my breast is clear.
Nor wild romance nor pride allured me here:
Duty and destiny with equal voice
Constrained my steps: I had no other choice.
The hermit “lodge in some vast wilderness,”
Which sometimes poets sigh for, I confess,
Were but a sorry lot. In real life
One needs a friend—the best of friends, a wife:
But with a home thus cheered, however rude,
There’s nought so very dull in solitude,—
Even though that home should happen to be found,
Like mine, in Africa’s remotest bound.
—I have my farm and garden, tools and pen;
My schemes for civilising savage men;
Our Sunday service, till the Sabbath-bell
Shall wake its welcome chime in Lynden dell:
Some duty or amusement, grave or light,
To fill the active day from morn till night:
And thus two years so lightsomely have flown
That still we wonder when the week is gone.
—We have at times our troubles, it is true,
Passing vexations and privations too;
But were it not for woman’s tender frame,
These are annoyances I scarce would name;
For though perchance they plague us while they last,
They only serve for jests when they are past.
And then your notion that we’re quite exiled
From social life amid these mountains wild,
Accords not with the fact—as you will see
On glancing o’er this district map with me.
. . . . . . . . . .
Thomas Pringle.
THE VOLUNTEERS OF ENGLAND.
BY A COLONIST.
Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.
A trumpet blast is pealing
’Mongst Albion’s echoing hills,
Arousing every feeling
That patriot’s bosom thrills:
O’er hill and dale resounding,
It sends its loud alarm;
The Freeman’s war-cry sounding,—
“For Hearths and Altars, arm!”