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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}

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?"





BENDY'S SERMON

[Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]

     You didn't know of Bendigo!   Well, that
          knocks me out!
     Who's your board school teacher?   What's
          he been about?

     Chock-a-block with fairy-tales — full of
          useless cram,
     And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of
          Nottingham!

     Bendy's short for Bendigo.   You should
          see him peel!
     Half of him was whalebone, half of him
          was steel,

     Fightin' weight eleven ten, five foot nine
          in height,
     Always ready to  oblige if you  want a
          fight.

     I could talk of Bendigo from here to king-
          dom come,
     I guess before I ended you would wish your
          dad was dumb.

     I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and
          how the deaf 'un fell,
     But the game is done, and the men are
          gone — and maybe it's as well.

     Bendy he turned Methodist—he said he
          felt a call,
     He stumped the country preachin' and you
          bet he filled the hall,

     If you seed him in the pulpit, a-bleatin'
          like a lamb,
     You'd   never know   bold   Bendigo,   the
          pride of Nottingham.

     His hat was like a funeral, he'd got a
          waiter's coat,
     With a hallelujah collar and a choker round
          his throat,

     His pals would laugh and say in chaff that
          Bendigo was right,
     In takin' on the devil, since he'd no one
          else to fight.

     But he was very earnest, improvin' day by
          day,
     A-workin' and a-preachin' just as his duty
          lay,

     But the devil he was waitin', and in the
          final bout,
     He hit him hard below his guard and
          knocked poor Bendy out.

     Now I'll tell you how it happened. He
          was preachin' down at Brum,
     He was billed just like a circus, you should
          see the people come,

     The chapel it was crowded, and in the fore-
          most row,
     There was half a dozen bruisers who'd a
          grudge at Bendigo.

     There was Tommy Piatt of Bradford,
          Solly Jones of Perry Bar,
     Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the
          same wot drew with Carr,

     Jack Ball the fightin  gunsmith, Joe Mur-
          phy from the Mews,
     And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, the
          Champion of the Jews.

     A very pretty handful a-sittin' in a
          string,
     Full of beer and impudence, ripe for any-
          thing,

     Sittin' in a string there, right under
          Bendy's nose,
     If his message was for sinners, he could
          make a start on those.

     Soon he heard them chaflin'; "Hi, Bendy!
          Here's a go!"
     "How much are you coppin' by this Jump
          to Glory show?"

     "Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring!  Mighty
          spry of you!
     Didn't  everybody know  the  ring  was
          leavin' you."

     Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above
          and prayed,
     "Look down, O Lord, and grip me with
          a strangle hold!" he said.

     "Fix me with a strangle hold! Put a stop
          on me!
     I'm slippin', Lord, I'm slippin' and I'm
          clingin' hard to Thee!"

     But the roughs they kept on chaffin' and
          the uproar it was such
     That the preacher in the pulpit might be
          talkin' double Dutch,

     Till a workin' man he shouted out, a-
          jumpin' to his feet,
     "Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave
          'em in the street."

     Then  Bendy  said, "Good  Lord, since
          first I left my sinful ways,
     Thou knowest that to Thee alone I've
          given up my days,

     But now, dear Lord"—and here he laid his
          Bible on the shelf—
     "I'll take, with your permission, just five
          minutes for myself."

     He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger
          from a den,
     They say it was a lovely sight to see him
          floor his men;

     Right and left, and left and right, straight
          and true and hard,
     Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like
          a knacker's yard.

     Platt was standin' on his back and lookup
          at his toes,
     Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin' for
          his nose,

     Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he
          could do
     Rakin' for his ivories that
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