The Poetry of South Africa

by Unknown

They say on the whole that the town’s rather pretty
(By the way they’ve a bishop, so call it a city);
But apt to be sleepy, and stagnant and dull,
In a kind of perpetual calm, or a lull
Of such very long lasting, that no one can form
An idea of the time when it last had a storm.
Now did you ever try on
A slumbering lion
(Of course safe in a cage, or fixed in the wrong hole)
The experiment called stirring up with a long pole?
First you tickle him gently, he stops in a snore,
Then you pummel his ribs and he utters a roar.

Then you give it him harder—a bound and a shake,
A jump at the bars which may well make you quake,
Mane and tail up on end—and the lion’s awake.
Just so they relate
How this city of late,
Being sleepy and slow as a solemn debate,
Was aroused from repose
By a fly on its nose,
In the shape of a rumour disturbing its doze.
The rumour then spread, and the faster it flew,
The more evident was it the rumour was true.
The city jumped up from its very long snooze,
Threw its nightcap aside, donned its small clothes and shoes,
And was more wide-awake than’t has ever been since
It was built—for till now it ne’er welcomed a Prince!
A Prince, then, was coming—a Prince of Blood Royal—
The son of a Queen to whom every one’s loyal;
A Prince, too, who wears the triumphant blue jacket,
To guard from affronting
That famed bit of bunting,
And pitch into the foe who shall dare to attack it.

A long while the city remained in suspense,
Hopeful, but fidgety, making pretence
Of not being excited,
But looking delighted,
As a boy newly breeched, or a cit newly knighted.
Grand preparations
For illuminations.
Fêtes and regattas, and balls and reviews,
Ev’ry one asking, “Well, what’s the last news?”

Ladies all crowding, besieging the shops,
Buying dresses so grand that their brilliancy whops
(As Jonathan says) all description, and gloves
And wreaths that they fondly pronounce “perfect loves,”
And lace-bordered lawn for each sweet little nose,
And the finest of pinky-white gauzy silk hose,
And white satin shoes for their dear little toes.

Volunteers, too,
Green, scarlet, and blue,
Furbish their uniforms up to look new,
Polish up bayonets, rifles, and sabres,
Looking forward with pride to their arduous labours,
And twist their moustaches with pleasure prophetic
Of how they will look—with the aid of cosmetic.

All things have an end, as experience teaches
(Except crinoline, p’raps, or Upper House speeches);
So at length the suspense was all over—at last
The season of mere expectation was past,
And in Simon’s Bay,
No very great way
From the city, all snug, the Euryalus lay.
In Adderley Street
Citizens meet,
Staring at telegrams, hauling out flags,
Stowed safely away in their canvas bags,
Guessing to-morrow will be a grand holiday,
Vowing they’ll try, too, to make it a jolly day.
Cabmen and coolies,
Whose general rule is
To get in the way when they’ve got nothing to do,
Assemble in groups
At street-corners or stoeps,
And stop up the road when you try to get through.
And little black boys
Kick up a noise
By way of evincing their innocent joys.
. . . . . . . . . .
The morrow came, up rose the sun,
And who hath seen a brighter one?
No cloud to obscure a single ray,
A clear, warm, brilliant summer’s day.
A day right worthy of its scene,
A people’s homage to their Queen,
In hailing with their heartfelt joy
Her darling child—her sailor boy!
The morrow has come;
Trumpet and drum,
Streamers and pennants,
Houses empty of tenants,
Cannon and bells,—
Everything tells
Of a day that’s begun
Of rejoicing and fun.
The city’s awake now, as sure as a gun,
And looks almost as bright as that glorious sun.

It’s past half-past one, and it’s drawing near two—
The hour he’s to come, if the programme speak true.
Chevalier Duprat, with his stout bombardiers,
Is preparing salutes to astonish our ears.
The Rifle Corps, too, with their dark-green and black,
Looking regular heroes, and shooters called “crack,”
With their soldier-like colonel—right man in the right place,
Though the steed that he rides isn’t such as he might grace—
Line the streets in full force,
With also the horse,
Than whom none would fight more—
The brave blue and white corps,
With helmets of silver—such regular shiners—
And the scarlet and gold of the sappers-and-miners.
And last, but not least, with their breeks in zigzag stripes,
The gallant Scotch corps, with their capital bagpipes.
To these add the regulars—regular bricks—
The brave Fifty-ninth, with its flag inscribed LIX.
(And so it does everything—pardon the pun,
Its atrociously bad, but it’s true as the sun.)

At length one hears,
From the bombardiers,
The banging of cannon, which serves for their cheers;
And the Prince with his retinue really appears
Over Castle-bridge, past Caledon Square,
Of all, save stones and mud-holes, bare.
Beside the parade, with its stunted firs,
Which scarcely the sign of a breeze now stirs,
Through a street where the breeze pretty frequently plays her part,
Now known as Darling Street—ci-devant Keizersgracht.

The Prince had arrived, and no princely race
Showed ever a nobler youthful face;
So full of beauty, so full of grace,
His chestnut hair, his large blue eye,
His features calm, wherein seem to lie
Gentleness, intellect, majesty.
A prince right worthy his royal name,
His lineage proud, his father’s fame;
Right worthy to wear the glorious blue,
And fight ’neath the banner of England too—
The mightiest banner that ever flew!

And the motley crowd
All shouts aloud,
“Huzzah” and “hooray,”
And “Daar komaan hy.”
And they bless him, and praise him, and most of them pray
That the time may arrive, when he’s got to majority,
He may come here and handle the reins of authority.
Some people, it’s true,
Are inclined to look blue,
For they don’t see a crown, and they fear it’s a “do;”
And they’re hard to convince
That a real royal prince
Isn’t born with a crown
Firmly wedged down
To the top of his skull,
Like the deck of a hull;
But he sits on his horse like a prince, like a man,
Sits as only a thoroughbred Englishman can.