THE FLIGHT OF THE AMAKOSA.
A RIFLE CORPS LEGEND.
It’s the hour of the morn
When he who’s not born
With a silver spoon ready-made for him, will scorn
To muddle his head
By lying in bed,
But jumps into a tub of cold water instead;
Which disperses each dream,
And gets up his steam,
And makes him as fresh as new butter and cream;
Drives off sleep’s dizziness,
Fits him for business,
Screws up his system,
And seems to assist him
To follow whatever employments enlist him.
In short, it’s the hour when the whole Ville du Cap
(As the Frenchmen call Cape Town) wakes up from its nap
And prepares for its trade, its profession or craft, as
Labourer, lawyer, or dealer in baftas.
But every one knows
That although l’homme propose,
It isn’t in mortals themselves to “dispose,”
For that is undoubtedly toute autre chose—
Or to speak in plain English, when plain English suits—
A pair of decidedly different boots.
And so on this day
Quite a different way
Of spending its time—neither work nor yet play—
From what Cape Town chalked out
When first it had walked out
That morning, it found in its destiny lay.
For Brown, Jones, and Robinson, Thomson, Smith, Russel,
And Jack, Tom, and Harry, are all in a bustle,
Crying, “Holloa! what now?
What’s the news? what’s the row?
What the deuce can the matter be?
What can the clatter be?”
Kafirs escaped from the Amsterdam Battery!
It’s really true:
And one looks blue
And another knows hardly what to do:
Some stare, and some
Look shockingly glum,
While others declare it’s “remarkably rum.”
“Why don’t they bring Inspector King,
And his blue-coat ‘peelers?’—that’s the thing?”
While others shout,
“What are they about?
Why don’t they call the artillery out?”
But voices are drowned
By a martial sound
That all on a sudden rings out around;
And each who hears
Cries out, “Three cheers!
It’s the bugle-call of the Volunteers!”
Over the chimney-pots, over the tiles,
Over the gardens, two square miles,
Float the sounds of that warlike blast,
Proclaiming approaching relief at last.
Doubt has fled,
Fear hides its head,
And curiosity reigns instead.
. . . . . . . . . .
In the square of the Church there’s a hubbub and fluster,
In the square of the Church the brave warriors muster—
Cavalry warriors armed, spurred, and booted,
With white-covered caps for the atmosphere suited,
Jackets of blue, rather short in the waist,
Garnished with silver in beautiful taste,
Trousers of blue with a broad silver border
And very long swords of the steel-scabbard order.
One by one,
To see the fun
The citizens into the Church square run,
And then they gaze
In delighted amaze
At the gallant scene the square displays,
As the warriors gather by twos and threes
Beneath the shadow of two small trees,
Twirling mustachios in solemn monotony—
Excepting the captain, who hasn’t yet got any,
While a few little boys
Are making a noise
And shouting, “Oh my!
Here comes a guy!
Oh come and look at this rummy fella
A riding up with his umberella!”
And truth to confess,
It did look a mess,
As a hero rode up on his gallant Black Bess,
And while he wore
His costume du corps,
In his hand a white-covered umbrella he bore.
The muster’s complete,
Each man’s in his seat,
Ready to do any desperate feat.
The captain springs
To his saddle, and flings
A look which alone attention brings;
Ere he gives the word,
And as soon as it’s heard,
Not a limb but in discipline’s rule is stirred,
And every one sees that those gaily clad men are all
Ready to die at the word of their general.
(I give him this title, for though it is true
He’s a captain alone—of this rifle corps blue—
The intelligent reader will also discern he’s
Her Majesty’s General—of the Attorneys.)
Away! list again to the trumpet, for hark! it
Sounds gallantly out from the square of Greenmarket.
Away! seek the steps of the classic Town Hall:
See the infantry Rifles respond to the call,
Officers, privates, and bandsmen, and all;
All looking valiant, and all to a man
Determined at least to be found in “the van.”