The End · 1902-1909 · The Wanderer

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 Wanderer

1 With acknowledgment to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch

'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?"