Songs Of The Road

THE OUTCASTS

 
     Three women stood by the river's flood
          In the gas-lamp's murky light,
     A devil watched them on the left,
          And an angel on the right.
 
 
     The clouds of lead flowed overhead;
          The leaden stream below;
     They marvelled much, that outcast three,
          Why Fate should use them so.
 
 
     Said one: "I have a mother dear,
          Who lieth ill abed,
     And by my sin the wage I win
          From which she hath her bread."
 
 
     Said one: "I am an outcast's child,
          And such I came on earth.
     If me ye blame, for this my shame,
          Whom blame ye for my birth?"
 
 
     The third she sank a sin-blotched face,
          And prayed that she might rest,
     In the weary flow of the stream below,
          As on her mother's breast.
 
 
     Now past there came a godly man,
          Of goodly stock and blood,
     And as he passed one frown he cast
          At that sad sisterhood.
 
 
     Sorely it grieved that godly man,
          To see so foul a sight,
     He turned his face, and strode apace,
          And left them to the night.
 
 
     But the angel drew her sisters three,
          Within her pinions' span,
     And the crouching devil slunk away
          To join the godly man.
 

THE END

 
     "Tell me what to get and I will get
             it."
          "Then get that picture – that – the
             girl in white."
     "Now tell me where you wish that I should
             set it."
          "Lean it where I can see it – in the
             light."
 
 
     "If there is more, sir, you have but to say
             it."
          "Then bring   those  letters – those
             which lie apart."
     "Here is the packet! Tell me where to
            lay it."
          "Stoop over, nurse, and lay it on
            my heart."
 
 
     "Thanks for  your  silence,  nurse! You
            understand me!
          And now  I'll   try  to  manage  for
            myself.
     But, as you go, I'll trouble you to hand
            me
          The small blue bottle there upon the
            shelf.
 
 
     "And so farewell! I feel that I am
            keeping
          The sunlight from you; may your
            walk be bright!
     When you return I may perchance be
            sleeping,
          So, ere you go, one hand-clasp
            and good night!"
 

1902-1909

 
     They recruited William Evans
          From the ploughtail and the spade;
     Ten years' service in the Devons
          Left him smart as they are made.
 
 
     Thirty or a trifle older,
          Rather over six foot high,
     Trim of waist and broad of shoulder,
          Yellow-haired and blue of eye;
 
 
     Short of speech and very solid,
          Fixed in purpose as a rock,
     Slow, deliberate, and stolid,
          Of the real West-country stock.
 
 
     He had never been to college,
          Got his teaching in the corps,
     You can pick up useful knowledge
          'Twixt  Saltash and  Singapore.
 
 
     Old Field-Cornet Piet van Celling
          Lived just northward of the Vaal,
     And he called his white-washed dwelling,
          Blesbock Farm, Rhenoster Kraal.
 
 
     In his politics unbending,
          Stern of speech and grim of face,
     He pursued the never-ending
          Quarrel with the English race.
 
 
     Grizzled hair and face of copper,
          Hard as nails from work and sport,
     Just the model of a Dopper
          Of the fierce old fighting sort.
 
 
     With a shaggy bearded quota
          On commando at his order,
     He went off with Louis Botha
          Trekking for the British border.
 
 
     When Natal was first invaded
          He was fighting night and day,
     Then he scouted and he raided,
          With De Wet and Delaney.
 
 
     Till he had a brush with Plumer,
          Got a bullet in his arm,
     And returned in sullen humour
          To the shelter of his farm.
 
 
     Now it happened that the Devons,
          Moving up in that direction,
     Sent their Colour-Sergeant Evans
          Foraging with half a section.
 
 
     By a friendly Dutchman guided,
          A Van Eloff or De Vilier,
     They were promptly trapped and hided,
          In a manner too familiar.
 
 
     When the sudden scrap was ended,
          And they sorted out the bag,
     Sergeant Evans lay extended
          Mauseritis in his leg.
 
 
     So the Kaffirs bore him, cursing,
          From the scene of his disaster,
     And they left him to the nursing
          Of the daughters of their master.
 
 
     Now the second daughter, Sadie —
          But the subject why pursue?
     Wounded youth and tender lady,
          Ancient tale but ever new.
 
 
     On the stoep they spent the gloaming,
          Watched the shadows on the veldt,
     Or she led her cripple roaming
          To the eucalyptus belt.
 
 
     He would lie and play with Jacko,
          The baboon from Bushman's Kraal,
     Smoked Magaliesberg tobacco
          While she lisped to him in Taal.
 
 
     Till he felt that he had rather
          He had died amid the slaughter,
     If the harshness of the father
          Were not softened in the daughter.
 
 
     So he asked an English question,
          And she answered him in Dutch,
     But her smile was a suggestion,
          And he treated it as such.
 
 
     Now among Rhenoster kopjes
          Somewhat northward of the Vaal,
     You may see four little chappies,
          Three can walk and one can crawl.
 
 
     And the blue of Transvaal heavens
          Is reflected in their eyes,
     Each a little William Evans,
          Smaller model – pocket size.
 
 
     Each a little Burgher Piet
          Of the hardy Boer race,
     Two great peoples seem to meet
          In the tiny sunburned face.
 
 
     And they often greatly wonder
          Why old granddad and Papa,
     Should have been so far asunder,
          Till united by mamma.
 
 
     And when asked, "Are you a Boer.
          Or a little Englishman?"
     Each will answer, short and sure,
          "I am a South African."
 
 
     But the father answers, chaffing,
          "Africans but British too."
     And the children echo, laughing,
          "Half of mother – half of you."
 
 
     It may seem a crude example,
          In an isolated case,
     But the story is a sample
          Of the welding of the race.
 
 
     So from bloodshed and from sorrow,
          From the pains of yesterday,
     Comes the nation of to-morrow
          Broadly based and built to stay.
 
 
     Loyal spirits strong in union,
          Joined by kindred faith and blood;
     Brothers in the wide communion
          Of our sea-girt brotherhood.
 

THE WANDERER¹

 
     'Twas in the shadowy gloaming
          Of a cold and wet March day,
     That a wanderer came roaming
          From countries far away.
 
 
     Scant raiment had he round him,
          Nor purse, nor worldly gear,
     Hungry and faint we found him,
          And bade him welcome here.
 
 
     His weary frame bent double,
          His eyes were old and dim,
     His face was writhed with trouble
          Which none might share with him.
 
 
     His speech was strange and broken,
          And none could understand,
     Such words as might be spoken
          In some far distant land.
 
 
     We guessed not whence he hailed from,
          Nor knew what far-off quay
     His roving bark had sailed from
          Before he came to me.
 
 
     But there he was, so slender,
          So helpless and so pale,
     That my wife's heart grew tender
          For one who seemed so frail.
 
 
     She cried, "But you must bide here!
          You shall no further roam.
     Grow stronger by our side here,
          Within our moorland home!"
 
 
     She laid her best before him,
          Homely and simple fare,
     And to his couch she bore him
          The raiment he should wear.
 
 
     To mine he had been welcome,
          My suit of russet brown,
     But she had dressed our weary guest
          In a loose and easy gown.
 
 
     And long in peace he lay there,
          Brooding and still and weak,
     Smiling from day to day there
          At thoughts he would not speak.
 
 
     The months flowed on, but ever
          Our guest would still remain,
     Nor made the least endeavour
          To leave our home again.
 
 
     He heeded not for grammar,
          Nor did we care to teach,
     But soon he learned to stammer
          Some words of English speech.
 
 
     With these our guest would tell us
          The things that he liked best,
     And order and compel us
          To follow his behest.
 
 
     He ruled us without malice,
          But as if he owned us all,
     A sultan in his palace
          With his servants at his call.
 
 
     Those calls came fast and faster,
          Our service still we gave,
     Till I who had been master
          Had grown to be his slave.
 
 
     He claimed with grasping gestures
          Each thing of price he saw,
     Watches and rings and vestures,
          His will the only law.
 
 
     In vain had I commanded,
          In vain I struggled still,
     Servants and wife were banded
          To do the stranger's will.
 
 
     And then in deep dejection
          It came to me one day,
     That my own wife's affection
          Had been beguiled away.
 
 
     Our love had known no danger,
          So certain had it been!
     And now to think a stranger
          Should dare to step between.
 
 
     I saw him lie and harken
          To the little songs she sung,
     And when the shadows darken
          I could hear his lisping tongue.
 
 
     They would sit in chambers shady,
          When the light was growing dim,
     Ah, my fickle-hearted lady!
          With your arm embracing him.
 
 
     So, at last, lest he divide us,
          I would put them to the test.
     There was no one there beside us,
          Save  this  interloping  guest.
 
 
     So I took my stand before them,
          Very silent and erect,
     My accusing glance passed o'er them,
          Though with no observed effect.
 
 
     But the lamp light shone upon her,
          And I saw each tell-tale feature,
     As I cried, "Now, on your honour,
          Do or don't you love the creature?"
 
 
     But her answer seemed evasive,
          It was "Ducky-doodle-doo!
     If his mummy loves um babby,
          Doesn't daddums love um too?"