I’ve had a dozen steeds or more,
Since that eventful day;
But no more “salted” ones, be sure—
That sort of thing don’t pay,
For if a charger’s worth a sou,
He’s worth his feed, I swear:
And should he live, I laugh, don’t you?
And should he die, don’t care.
A. Brodrick.
Transvaal.
A ROMANCE FROM THE FIELDS.
A COLONIAL BALLAD.
“How be I getting along, sir?
Why, thankee, I can’t complain;
The taties and crops looks splendid,
Since we got that there last rain:
The cattle and birds does middling,
The missus and children’s well,
And the future looks bright and cheery,
So far as I can tell.
“I look like a Dutchman, do I?
With them feathers in my hat!
Well p’r’aps they’re a trifle gaudy,
But I’ll wear ’em ’spite of that.
My ‘talisman’ I calls ’em, for
They came off a wondrous bird,
That completely changed our fortunes:
’Tis the strangest tale you’ve heard.
“Afore you left for England,
You may mind I went to the Fields;
I was nigh played out with farming,
And read of the thumping yields
Them diamond claims was giving, so
Resolved my luck to try,—
The drought and cruel lungsick
Had bothered us properly.
“I got what I could together,
And we started right ahead;
Missus and me and Bill here,
With two little gals as is dead.
I didn’t do much at digging,
But money could then be earned
By any willing fellow
Who to work in earnest turned.
“Wages was high, and I prospered,
Till fever came to the place,
And I was unable to work, sir,
And our children drooped apace.
’Twas a sad time, I can tell you,
And oft should we have starved,
But a neighbour—he’d been a sailor—
His substance with us halved.