THE BALLAD OF BECHUANA.
The answer Mr. Punch would like Mr. Chamberlain to be able to make to Khama.
["Khama, the Bechuana Chief, will not consent to come under Rhodes if the white man is to be free to 'convey' his subjects' land, and to poison them with strong drink."—Daily Chronicle.]
Air—"Oriana."
We sympathise with your great woe,
Bechuana.
There's little rest for Chiefs below,
Bechuana.
In sultry climes, in climes of snow,
The drink will come, the land will go,
Bechuana.
The ways of Trade were ever so,
Bechuana!
The Chartered Company seems growing,
Bechuana.
The liquor interest is crowing,
Bechuana.
Bung is blowing, drink is flowing,
Rhodes like one o'clock is going,
Bechuana.
Where they will stop there is no knowing,
Bechuana!
In black kingdoms, as in white,
Bechuana,
Men are given to getting "tight,"
Bechuana.
Khama, it is a grievous sight.
And you, you seem to have done right,
Bechuana,
Since you your troth to us did plight,
Bechuana!
Sober, industrious, fond of peace,
Bechuana,
You've kept your tribe. May it increase,
Bechuana.
If, you would have the traffic cease,
Why should your heart not have that ease,
Bechuana?
Sobriety is the best police,
Bechuana!
It is a vile, corroding curse,
Bechuana.
We do not wish, quite the reverse,
Bechuana,
That, just to fill a huckster-purse,
Your tribe should go from bad to worse,
Bechuana.
Twere a foul shame! That's true and terse,
Bechuana!