The Poetry of South Africa

by Unknown

And now cavalry, infantry, all are assembled,
And Greenmarket Square ’neath their tramp has trembled;
And orders of all sorts on all sides are given,
And spurs in the flanks of the chargers are driven—
“March!” “Forward!” Away! “Drive on, coachee!” all tell a
Sad tale of what Horace calls aspera bella.
. . . . . . . . . .
The way was long, the day was hot,
The Rifles very warm had got;
Their bright blue coats and silver gay
Seemed to befit a cooler day;
Their swords, their glory and their joy,
Hung in their sheaths, a useless toy;
The first of all the Rifles they
Who rode forth to the Kafir fray.
But, well-a-day! that luck was fled,
No Kafirs were discoverèd:
Though they, the bravest of their race,
Longed to be with them face to face.
No more with hopeful looks they glance,
And spur their steeds to make them prance;
But half their ardour, martial, gay,
In perspiration melts away.

Yet now they make a gallant push,
And bravely scour the scrubby bush.
Woe to the foe that lurks within,
While forward dashes headlong Glynn.
Woe to the foe!
“What’s that? Holloa!
Somebody’s hiding there, I know.
Huzzah! there he is,
With his coal-black phiz,
And his black woolly hair too all in a friz:
Yield, villain! yield, or prepare to feel
Two feet and a half of this trusty steel!”

The villian has yielded—they’ve captured him,
And they’ve tied up his wrists with a bit of a reim—
First fruits of the foray! oh, gallant Glynn,
’Tis thine the honour of war to win.
But what’s that remark?
Who talks of a lark?
Do tell us, oh do,
Is it really true?
From trooper to trooper the sentence that’s now heard,
“The woolly head chap’s Mr. Somebody’s cowherd.”
The gallant captain’s seen to smile,
Gravely shakes his head awhile,
Then, as he taps his sabre’s hilt, he
Cries, “Let him go! he’s found ‘not guilty.’”

Forward again in the roasting sun,
Horses and troopers, too, almost done,
March forth the cavalry, one by one;
And behind them the infantry’s green coats appear,
For they’re still in “the van” though they’re still in the rear.

Forward they move, but alas! alas!
Not a Kafir is seen through all the pass
(Though Private Saunders has brought a glass).
Camp’s Bay is reached, and each Rifleman’s breast
At that moment a thrill of joy confest,
As he gazed on the scene, and half-way up the hill he
Perceived in the distance the round house of Tilley.
And here awhile they rest from labour,
Rifle cast aside and sabre;
At the provisions do their worst,
With beer and soda slake their thirst;
But how they ate and how they drank,
As if each throttle were a tank—
To tell all this my pen would fail;
But even Porter turned to ale.

That night the warrior band returned,
But though their hearts with valour burned,
Not one his spurs as yet had earned.
Though hands were firm and nerves unshaken,
The Kafir foemen had saved their bacon,
And (saving the cowboy) no prisoner was taken.
. . . . . . . . . .
The shades of the night
Had taken to flight,
The sun gave out all his heat and light;
When some one averred
That some one had heard
(Or perhaps had been told by some sharp little bird)
That the fir-trees which grow
In many a row,
And make ’neath our mountain so pleasant a show,
Concealed in their deepest and darkest recess
The runaway Kafirs who’d made all this mess;
To the terror and horror of those who lived near,
And who hinted they just entertained the slight fear
That between thirst and hunger—a terrible fix—
They might cut people’s throats as they’d cut their own sticks.
Away at the word goes the valiant crew,
Searching the fir forest right through and through:
“Steady!” cries Captain T——, “steady, men, steady!
Keep your eyes open—be silent and ready.”

Ha, ha, ha! there they go—
’Tis the foe; ’tis the foe—
But still not an inch of their skins dare they show.
Bang, bang! goes each gun:
Helter skelter, too, run
The Rifles, pursuing like mad or like fun—
When some one exultingly cries out “Here’s one!”

’Twas true! ’twas one! the ball had sped,
And entered the dying wretch’s head;
Forth from the wound the life-blood flowed,
And, stretched in the warriors’ very road,
A grisly baboon its carcase showed!
And the Riflemen stared,
Half puzzled, half scared,
While a private coarsely remarked, “I’m blowed.”
Thus the second day’s deeds to an end were brought,
But somehow the Kafirs were not yet caught.
. . . . . . . . . .
How it turned out next day
’Twere not easy to say;
But five gallant gentlemen happened to stray
Through the woods for a search, and without any fuss,
Which so often brings forth the ridiculus mus,
Pounced right on the runaway Kafirs and bagged them—
That is, on fourteen (quite enough to have scragged them);
And this feat all their comrades in arms pronounced lucky—
For my part, I call it uncommonly “plucky.”

And thus ended the Rifle Corps Kafir campaign—
Whose like may the Rifle Corps ne’er see again,
For they’d very much trouble and very small gain.

But Cape Town all felt that, with such an array
Of valour to guard it by night and by day,
It might sleep in its bed,
And not trouble its head
About Kafirs in prison, or Kafirs who’d fled.
For myself I can vow,
If there’s ever a row,
I sha’n’t think a bit of the consequence now.
For regular regiments I care not a rap:
The Rifle Corps guards me, what can spoil my nap?