Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/fromoutpostsOOgoulrich FROM THE OUTPOSTS SONGS OUT OF EXILE By CULLEN GOULDSBURY Crown 8vo, cloth. 3s. 6d. net " Mr. Gouldsbury has done for South Africa what Lhidsay Gordon did for Australia. He writes verse that will hold the Plain Man." — Graphic. " We are glad to see that Mr. Cullen Gouldsbury, in ' Songs out of Exile,' has collected his Rhodesian rhymes. He has an uncanny gift of keen observation . . . and the native poems in the section ' Black Man's Twilight ' form one of the most noteworthy of recent contributions to South African litera- ture." — Spectatot. " His virtue is a kind of dramatic incisiveness and vehe- mence reinforced by bold imagery." — Athevceum. " These poems, which are aptly described as ' Verses of African Sunshine, Shadow, and Black Man's Twilight,' give expression to the thoughts and feelings of the white man who is resident in South Africa. . . . Genuine feeling informs . . . indeed, all that Mr. Gouldsbury has written. These poems are marked by strength, tenderness, and beaut)', and they cling to the memory. They are, in a word, genuine poetry." A berdeen Free Press. " Mr. Gouldsbury has already been compared to Adam Lindsay Gordon and Rudyard Kipling. To our thinking, his muse is rather that of a chastened Swinburne, alive to all the beauty of an African earth, stricken with a sense of fate and the inexorable to-day, but quickened also by the dignity of toil and racial pride. ... In these pages is humour, breezy and caustic as befits the wandering Odysseus who has taken his toll of men and cities. And with it there is a sense of music, a tenderness of touch, and that c/rr/osfl/eZ/c/to that marks all genuine poetry." — Western Morning News. " There is a strength in Mr. Cullen Gouldsbury's verse which makes his work impressive. . . . The ' exile ' out of which he brings his songs was spent in South Africa, and he puts the moods and feelings of those who have left their home in the North to pass long years ' Down in the land where heathens are ' in an impressively forceful fashion." Daily Telegraph. FROM THE OUTPOSTS BY CULLEN GOULDSBURY AUTHOR OF "songs OUT OF EXILE " T. FISHER UNWIN I ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON First published 1914 {All rights reserved) CONTENTS TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS BUSH BALLADS THE CARAVAN THE CRY IN THE NIGHT . ON THE ROAD HIS LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT THE ADMINISTRATORS THE MAGIC PLAINS THE "CHISANGUKA" THE BUCCANEERS , THE MWAVI TREE . CHUNGU ON PROGRESS ON THE MOVE THE MAN WHO WOULDN'T GO HOME THE BACHELOR'S DOG PAGE II 25 28 30 32 35 38 40 43 45 47 49 52 55 s^ r>, r^. r\ r^ ^ CONTENTS TO THE GIRL WHO WOULDN'T COME ON THE VERANDAH THE OLD STORY . BEFORE DAWN THE COUNCILLOR . TWO SONGS FROM THE MASHONA I. AFRICAN SLUMBER SONG II. AFRICAN LOVE SONG RETROSPECT IN THE SMOKE GRAVES OF THE NORTH A RIDDLE OF ROADS THEN AND NOW . THE PIONEERS AN OPEN LETTER . BUSH MADRIGAL . TO AN OLD RIFLE GOBLIN GOLD A BALLAD IN SEASON AFRICAN AUTHORS CONTENTS THE LAMENT OF ABDULLAH-BIN-SULIMAN THE CROCODILE KINGS . THE PRICE OF EMPIRE RHODES'S DREAM . NIGER, SED PULCHERRIMUS A SONG OF PRAISE POINTS OF VIEW . "RATION b" TO MOTHER AFRICA PAGE 98 lOI 104 107 109 TI2 114 117 121 TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS I We have borne the heat and the burden For many a weary year, Asking nor wreath nor guerdon, Nor even words of cheer ; Knowing our work hes here, We have toiled without regret — Have you forgotten us, Mother ? or are we your children yet ? II Some of us hold your borders In sullen, sun-baked lands. Where savage, swift marauders Breed in the burning sands ; Your Honour lies in our hands To guard or trail in the dust — Have your forgotten, Mother, the men that you placed in trust ? 11 12 TO ENGLAND, PROM THE OUTPOSTS III From Africa unto China, From Quebec to far Malay, Your battleship and your Hner Have heavy debts to pay ! 'Tis we who make safe the w^ay. Guard each link of the chain — Send us a message. Mother, ere you turn to sleep again ! IV Remember the men who mattered In the dim, forgotten past ! The men who, riddled and shattered, Won you your lands at last, When the skies were overcast And the storm was near to break — Remember your children. Mother, who died for England's sake. Your cities are bravely builded, Your palaces nobly planned. Marble-pillared, and gilded, And set in a smiling land, TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS 13 . . . But the world was tamed to your hand Back in the stormy years — Your stateHest jewels, Mother, are the graves of your pioneers ! VI There is still the strain within you ! Rise, ere the time be past, Trust the men who can win you Honour unto the last. (Drake has bowed to the blast, Nelson and Clive are dead, But the God of Battles gave you Scott and his men instead.) VII By the banks of the old, grey river Still stand your Council Halls, But your Wise Men sit and shiver Within their storied walls ; Scorning the bitter calls Of men on the Frontier Line — There's a wider Empire, Mother, than lies 'twixt Channel and Tyne ! 14 TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS VIII Is Honour dead in your borders ? Are your children sold to shame ? Shall we cringe to alien orders And forget our Island's name ? Shall we douse the flickering flame That has Ht you down the years ? — Nay ! it shall burn more brightly, an you trust your pioneers ! IX A truce to the sleek attorneys That ring you snugly round — Send them on Empire-journeys To wider, cleaner ground ! You are fettered fast, and bound In the snares of a slavish clan That prate of a ''Little England" built on a pigmy plan. Drive your youth from the city From squalor and disease — In wide, foreseeing pity Hound them across the seas, TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS 15 Lest the taint spread out from these And you find, when the War Drum beats, Only your football critics left to guard your London streets. XI For your men are bleached and bleary, Your women are half-distraught, Your statesmen are squabble-weary With plans that come to naught ; You have made a God of your Sport, Forgotten Work for the Game, While the Nations hover hawk-hke, profiting by your shame. XII Your youths set fashions in collars, Are learned in ties and socks, Your maidens marry for dollars, And barter their souls for frocks ; You're drifting straight for the rocks Where the Ship of Rome went down — Can you breed us soldiers, Mother, from the harlot and the clown ? 16 TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS XIII In veld and jungle and prairie, In desert and dim lagoon, There are men wide-eyed and wary To guard you w^hile you swoon ; But, though it be yet high noon, The vultures hover nigh — Pass the word to your Outposts, while they're but specks in the sky. XIV Is there no Knight of the Garter To shield you from disdain ? Must you, then, stoop to barter And kiss the dust again ? Nay ! Villages of the Plain And hordes of Hindostan Would rise to guard you, Mother, could you but find the Man. XV Shall they grind us down with the harrow, Digging us into the dust, While British bones and marrow Are faithful to their trust ? TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS 17 We will perish if we must, But rather in sheets of flame Than yielding to Those Others the glory of our name. XVI Out in your wider spaces Beyond the farther seas Your million vassal-races Would bring Them to Their knees — Must they, for England's ease, Forswear the vows they gave ? Give them the choice, dear Mother ! dishonour, or the grave. XVII What ! for threescore of counties And thrice a hundred towns Must we cringe to their bounties And bow to foreign clowns? The White Cliffs and the Downs Are dear to us indeed, But your wider Empire, Mother, has still a wider need ! 2 18 TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS XVIII Think of the wives who languish In swamp and veld and vlei, Who bear their babes in anguish Ten thousand miles away ! Those are the ones, to-day, Who earn the martyr's crown, Not hammer-flinging harpies in a humdrum English town. XIX They do not quake at the issue In heathen lands afar — They are made of liner tissue Than your high-born ladies are ! And still the steady star Shines out, and holds them true To the crowning needs of England, to their husbands and to you. XX They serve you in silence gaily, Whole-hearted and serene, Watching their youth die daily Into the Might-Have-Been, TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS 19 Scorning the seas between To share their husbands' place, Your Women of the Outposts are the Mothers of the Race ! XXI What of the babes they're bearini In lands of sullen heat Tenderly, gladly daring To lay them at your feet ; Giving boys to the Fleet And girls as soldiers' wives, Paying their debt to England in tiny human lives ? XXII Back in the Halls of Pleasure The years are clattering down, Languid ladies of leisure Ogling fops of the town . . . The cost of a silken gown Would build a desert-road . . . But who knows aught of the Outposts, or cares for the frontier-load ? 20 TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS XXIII Grimly, wearily building Out in the wilds are we While these, at Home, are gilding Lilies for men to see, Feasting in vapid glee, Scattering gold in the breeze (Men run African Districts for the price of a Pekinese). XXIV Blind and deaf to their function, Asking nor " How ? " nor " Why ? " They scan the news with unction And raise their parrot-cry, '' Look ye, the years go by And England's unprepared . . . ! " Till the markets claim their wits again, with nothing done or dared. XXV A truce to the windy vapours ! A truce to the babbling lips ! If the Fool must cut his capers Do you take heed to your ships ! TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS 21 Set vessels upon the slips Against the bitter day When the Babbler's words will falter, and the Fool's fat cheeks be grey. XXVI Ours is the wider vision Under an alien sky ; We know the sleek derision Of the Nations slinking by ! We are glad enough to die Unnoted and unknown So be we guard your Honour — for your Honour is our own. xxvii Cast out the smooth-mouthed traitor Cast out the prating fool, Cast out the speculator Who plots against your rule — Trust to the simpler school Of the men who love your name, And, if you prize us, Mother, spare us eternal shame ! 22 TO ENGLAND, FROM THE OUTPOSTS XXVIII Think of the lonely stations That hem your borders round ! In the history of the nations Each spot is holy ground ! Would you have your Wardens bound By coward traitor-hands ? Shame upon " Little England " while Greater England stands ! BUSH BALLADS THE CARAVAN Fifty or sixty heathen souls with half a hundred loads — A gibbering, dusky throng that rolls along the Northern Roads — A tattered hammock, and the rest — we know it, stick and stone, We who have left the pleasant West in yearning for our own. The London streets lie far behind, the London lights are dim — Our comrades here are Heathen Kind, who chant the Heathen's Hymn, And moonlit camp, and sunlit joy, and stubborn sable clay Replace the Carlton and Savoy — alack and well- a-day ! 25 26 THE CARAVAN Feathery bush and tufted grass, and silver mists of morn, And smouldering fires when we pass the camping- place at dawn, And silent beasts that prowl at night and slink and crouch and creep Round and about the firelight when all the world's asleep. The ragged, jagged screen of trees, the belt of bush between, The spacious upland where the breeze peeps out across the scene. The shrouded streams that wind away in shadow at high noon. The tiny, tasselled clouds that play about a silver moon. The paths that thread their twisted line beneath a brazen sky, And raw-limbed cactuses that twine above as we go by. And silent ghosts that shuffle past aloof, as ghosts should be, From shadows where their lot was cast into Eternity. THE CARAVAN 27 This is the world we left behind, en route for London Town, This is the world we hoped to find when Pleasures weighed us down — This is the world that Nature made— her own pecuHar star — Wherein She plies her eerie trade, unhindered and afar. We love each whisper of the wind, each rumour of the road — Each frowsy goatskin slung behind, and every knotted load. Each red-brown village framed in smoke among the feathered maize, Even the belts of scrub that cloak the glories of the ways. God gave the Heathen woes enough — but deep content as well. Fashioning him from sterner stuff to bear a sterner hell— The soft-skinned darlings of the West may cling to Fortune's lap — Our lot, perhaps, is still the best, marching across the map. THE CRY IN THE NIGHT Just a cry in the night — then a roar, and a shout, And the grass springs aHght, and the fires blaze out — Is he here ? Is he there ? Let us peer ! let us stare ! But he's oif to his lair though his scent's still about. Just a rending of flesh and a crunching of bone, And a growling afresh, and a pitiful groan — Do you hear it ? Ah ! ssh ! How they scramble and push ! — See ! There's blood on that bush ! Did you hear the man moan ? Not a star in the sky, and the moon wasn't out When His Lordship went by. And there isn't a doubt THE CRY IN THE NIGHT 29 That the poor devil's dead ... he was cooking, they said, When He clawed at his head with a deuce of a clout. Have you matches ? Ah, good ! And a candle to spare ? I should put on the hood — it'll lessen the glare. I've the small -303. What have you ? SSG ? Well, here's luck till we see if He's left us the hair ! ON THE ROAD Loquitur Balamwezi, a hundred miles from anywhere. He is balancing a jagged, unpleasant-looking case upon his head, and has stubbed the first joint off two toes on his left foot. Eya ! That's the worst of a wife As thin as a bundle of reeds, That worries a wretched man out of his Hfe, Won't cook beans, and stirs up strife Till I hump a load from Ndola to Fife To buy her a string of beads ! Yaha ! The box is as heavy as lead — Jagged ! Won't lie flat ! And here's what the fool of a White Man said — " Carry it straight or I'll punch your head ; It's whisky — kachasa — daily bread . . . ! " What did he mean by that ? Yangu ! I've been on the road a week, And I've three more weeks to go ; The wind in the morning's devilish bleak, 30 ON THE ROAD 31 At mid-day the sweat runs down one's cheek, And at night the hyaenas come round to sneak A meal off my wretched toe. The White Man may sit on his hams and swear, And call for his drink in vain. And Bwadya can rave and tear her hair And growl that she's starving, with nothing to wear She can marry Mulenga for all I care, I'm blowed if I'm going again ! (But he does, all the same.) HIS LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT Bury me deep, and dig me in — it's all you have to do, And set a stone that'll save my skin from the slinking jackal crew : Plant me out where the paths divide, up on the edge of the thorn, And tuck the rifle down at my side (the barrels are badly worn). I reckon it may be good to know, when the worms have had their fill, That the dear old 'phunts still come and go over the hump of the hill — Dead as a nail, I'll bet I hear their thumping feet go by. And the flogging tail, and the flapping ear between my bones and the sky. 32 HIS LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT 33 Lonely, you think ? a rum idea ? That's for a man to say ! I've known this country many a year, and I came out here to stay ; I'd rather be planted fair and free, with a beast or two around Than in a suburban cemetery, next to the Under- ground. 'Twon't be so lonely, for a lot of niggers are bound to pass Chasing a buck, as like as not, skidding along in the grass — You know the place that I've got in view ? just where the paths divide, And one goes east to the Little Lovu, and one to the Congo Side. * * * * Tisn't as if I'd much to lose ! You'd better grab my kit, There isn't enough to pick and choose, and I've sold the best of it. One or two decent heads, perhaps — the roan goes thirty, full, A pair of fairly useful straps, and the tusks of that last old bull. 3 34 HIS LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT You reckon you'll feel it ? Not a damn ! A week at the wide outside, You may be wondering where I am, and then you'll let it slide ! The dog'll be hit the worst, I bet — for dogs are built that way. And a dog can't swear, though he don't forget, and he can't flop down and pray. Anything else before I go ? ... I reckon I'm nearly due . . . ... No ! Not painful . . . but devihsh slow . . . Sort of feel bent askew . . . Dig it deep . . . and moderate wide . . . shove my head to the dawn . . . . . . Don't forget . . . Where the paths divide, just on the edge of the thorn. . . . THE ADMINISTRATORS When all is said and done, in the lands of Eternal Sun There are tasks, but half begun, men give their lives to learn ; Pitiably underpaid, with promotion long dela3^ed, They work for the love of their trade and not for a cash return. Others may strive and strain for a more substantial gain— These make the rough ways plain, open the desert door ; What if they slave unknown — unnoted and alone ? Their world is at least their own, out of the City's roar. Which is the better fee ? A brief celebrity, And fools to crook the knee and smirk at their lightest smile ? 35 36 THE ADMINISTRATORS Or, heathen customs banned, peace through a savage land, And the shake of a White Man's hand once in a dreary while ? Many may dub them fools — indeed, by the golden rules Of the modern Mammon Schools, they come of a foolish breed ; For their lives go up in smoke, and their necks are tied to the yoke, They're weary, and well-nigh "broke" — and yet they cling to their creed. Nay, they are wise enough, and made of a sterner stuff Than puppies shooting the cuff at the change of a Gaiety scene ; Peace, at the last, is theirs, and the scent of bush- land airs, And Death that comes unawares, merciful, swift and — clean. If, in the camp-fire glow, when the moon is hanging low. Sick of "the blasted show" they yearn for the lights of Town, THE ADMINISTRATOKS 37 Yet the dawn will come again, and the buck on open plain, And the cool that follows the rain — so the country pins them down. There isn't a man of them all who'd follow the luring call Of vice and the music-hall for more than a month at best ; 'Twould be " Hey for a heathen crew, and a rickety old canoe, '' And a gun and a dog or two — and the Devil may take the rest ! " " Give us our daily work ! It's death for a man to shirk — Back we go with a jerk to the Villages of the Plain ; Heathens to oversee — census and tithe and fee ; Worked to the bone — but free! It's good to be back again ! " THE MAGIC PLAINS When the world is out of gear, When our Gods have gone astray, When the ghosts of yester-year Rise to taunt the coming day, In the lull before the rains Hie we to the Magic Plains. Tapestries of tender green, Screens of grass like cloth of gold, Belts of bushland in between Where the pinky buds unfold, Wisps of smoke from heathen fires On the Plain of our Desires. Red-rimmed sun and lacy cloud, Hazy mists that hover low. Russet trees with branches bowed, Silent, sluggish streams that flow. Almost halt, yet never tire. Through the Plain of my Desire. THE MAGIC PLAINS 39 Shadow shapes with sweeping horns GHnting in the level rays, Shapes that through a thousand dawns Feed along the meadow ways, Roan and eland and the rest Grazing toward the golden West. Or, when twihght shadows fall, And the catlike creatures prowl, Blending with hyaena call Come the cries of waterfowl — Thus the shadows creep again Out across the Magic Plain. THE ^' CHISANGUKA." Note. — The Awemba believe that their Chiefs are often reincarnated in the shape of lions, and are chary of attempting to kill animals with such a reputation, even though they be notorious man-eaters. Who was it killed Mulenga a couple of weeks ago ? Bwana, they said a lion — but how should the Black Man know ? Was it a hunting lion ? That must be as it may ! Lion, leopard, or jackal — it's not for your slave to say. * * * * Why should I tell you, Bwana ? You'll laugh and say it's a lie ; White Men think that our Chiefs are but food for worms when they die ; They take no care to appease them, they take no heed of their wrath When the dead Chiefs fall on a village and harry the people forth. 40 THE "CHISANGUKA" 41 You know more than the others — you've written our stories down, You know the Grove of the Spirits, out by MwaruH Town ; Legends of Chitimukulu in their tens and tens again You've heard me tell by the fire at elephant camps in the rain. And yet, when the Chisanguka was walking a week ago You bade me set up a Snider-trap, and reckoned to kill it so ! Eh ! but you're mad, you White Men — foolish beyond belief. There was never a bullet moulded yet that would kill a reborn Chief. You write our names in the village ; our Hves are laid in your hand ; You're skilled in curious medicines, and yours are the laws of the land, You've wonderful " talking-boxes," weapons and books and tools, And yet, in the things that matter, your words are the words of fools. 42 THE "CHISANGUKA" Bwana, it wasn't a lion ! Shall we not know our own ? Does a dead Chief speak in other than the living Chieftain's tone ? He came in the guise of a lion — we found his spoor I know, But the soul of the beast was Mwamba, who died ten moons ago. He killed two men by the river ; he took a girl at the ford ; Why ? that the tribe should tremble when Mwamba walks abroad ! Why did he leave the bodies ? You can bear witness there That we followed his tracks till sundown and never came near his lair. You're hard on our people, Bwana ; you taunt us with being afraid, And all in a breath you fine us because we will not stockade ; You say it's a " lion-country," and laugh our beliefs to scorn, But — the lion that killed Mulenga, was Mwamba — newly born. THE BUCCANEERS {A sidelight upon an immoral, modern profession.) Let others go pry in the spinneys In quest of the rabbit or hare, Our booty's the gay, golden guinea, The meed of the milHonaire ; Too trivial a prey is the rabbit, The commonplace pheasant we shunt, For we have contracted the perilous habit Of poaching the " phunt." The Native Commissioner knows us (And knows that we think him a '' mug "), The Magistrate solemnly shows us The laws that will land us in *'jug" ; The Germans would hang us for treason, The Belgians would boil us alive (And between us we've shot to the end of the season A hundred and five). 43 44 THE BUCCANEERS Our profits are piling up daily (We're thinking of buying a farm), We smuggle our ivory gaily From Congo to Dar-es-Salaam ; The harassed official upbraids us, And vows that he'll clink us on sight. When a wily Swahili complacently trades us A dhow in the night. When others are snoring sedately. We're hot on the track of the herd ; We've been very fortunate lately. For no one has uttered a word ; The last was an eighty-five pounder, Going seven foot two on the curve (And I'm pleased to remark that we shot the old bounder In the Mweru Reserve !) Thus time very pleasantly passes, And money is easy to make ; I suppose we're the '* criminal classes," But that doesn't keep us awake ! When on Game Laws one's gaily encroaching. All else is but rind and the husk. And there's nothing to equal the glamour of poaching A whopping great tusk ! THE MWAVI TREE I SAW it first in a blazing noon, when the leaves were splotched with gold, And smiled to think of the foolishness of a mumbled heathen prayer ; . . . I saw it again when a silver moon revealed it, stiff and cold. But I shuddered then at the deeds of blood that had been accomplished there. Out to the Bush ye go ! — the Chief has spoken, Decreed a test, whereby ye shall abide ; Let none demur ! — the Mwavi shall betoken Whether he live or die ; let it decide. Misumbi died in child-birth yesterday — He was Misumbi's lover, so they say — And now the Gods have snatched her from his side. 45 46 THE MWAVI TREE Bring offerings to the Spirits — beads and flour And porridge in your little bowls of clay ; Beat out the Magic Bark to lend it power, And get your poison brewed and borne away. Set ye a naked child in Mongu's arms To garner up and carry off the charms (Mongu the Witchman's gaily decked to-day). Go summon ye each woman from her garden, And bid her whet her hoe upon the stone, For Mwavi knows no mercy and no pardon — Vengeance, and vengeance only, can atone. Misumbi's dead, and we have laid her by With stiffened limbs, and features wrenched awry ; And now, the Mwavi clamours for its own. Listen ! The drums are beating in the village ! Soon shall the Chief come forth and doom decree, Lest the dread curse alight on crop and tillage And blast his people with grim destiny. Let death be dealt, lest worser things befall, Lest some dread sickness come upon us all; Come, bring the Bowl, and bind him to the Tree ! CHUNGU ON PROGRESS You ask me, White Man, how we stand — How fare my people in the land Now that old laws are dying fast And White Man's peace is ours at last ? Listen ! . . . You see this shrivelled hand ? Well, even so, my power has passed ! White Man, why do you come to me f . . To see how humbled Chiefs may be ? . . . I was a Chief, or, so they say, And men were mine to bind and slay ; They lived or died at my decree — Where is old Chungu's power to-day ? Peace of the White Man ! Aye, forsooth ! We have it ! — and, in simple truth, Would gladly have our wars again. No more shall Chungu sweep the plain, And foes divide before his ruth Like grass before the driving rain. 47 48 CHUNGU ON PROGRESS My warriors, who once were mine To slay and mutilate and fine, Are swathed in blankets — mine recruits That prate of shirts and hats and boots — My women, who obeyed my sign, Now feed their Chief on grubs and roots. What if they pluck me by the beard ? Me, Chungu, whom they once revered ? Have I the right to burn and maim And slay ? — Not I ! Must '' lodge a claim With some young stripling, lately reared, To whom " Old Chungu's " but a name. * si< * * Nay, you are wise and just, I know . . . No doubt the old days had to go — The Black Man cannot hope to stand Before the stranger in his land, And yet . . . you strike a bitter blow At Chiefs who held men in their hand ! Gone are the days of tithe and fee, Gone are the days when my decree Would hold along the wide Lovu And Tanganyika's beaches too. A Chief, forsooth ! I'm eaten through Like some old battered forest tree, And thank the Gods my days are few ! ON THE MOVE {A Ditty of the Dry Season) Bang the safe and lock it, Don't forget the key ! With it in your pocket Once again you're free — Tucked away behind you Are the months of rain, And to-night will find you Out in camp again. Give your last instructions To the Native Clerk- Warn him against ructions. Beer drinks after dark; Curse the gaol-guards roundly Just to see them through — They'll be sleeping soundly For a month or two ! 4 50 ON THE MOVE Map the "prison labour'' Most exactly out — (Each will trust his neighbour For the job, no doubt) Spend a frantic hour On the Station's needs, Soap, and salt, and flour, Calico and beads. See the carriers bustle, Streaking down the path. Watch the headmen hustle Box and bale and bath — Blest is expectation ! Even now they eat In anticipation Gory chunks of meat. Grousing at the grind, Fed up with the faces Of those you leave behind, Mad with them that paid you. Riddled with routine. Thank the God Who made you For a change of scene ! ON THE MOVE 51 Hey for weeks of camping Full of magic zest, Days of honest tramping, Nights of honest rest ! Bang the door behind you, Trek with might and main, For to-night will find you In the bush again ! THE MAN WHO WOULDN'T GO HOME He lived in a rickety shanty Out on the edge o' beyond ; His rations were somewhat scanty Of drink he was far too fond ; Dead was his young ambition, He'd lost his brush and comb — Said he, '' I'm content with the present condition, I'm da — d if I ever go Home." Week upon week of hunting, That was his one delight — Rhino, buffalo, " phunting," The roar of the lion at night. Clothes were a minor question, He'd button them up with a thorn, And his hat and his boots were a mere suggestion Of what is usually worn. 52 THE MAN WHO WOULDN'T GO HOME 53 Life, as he blandly viewed it, Stood for a poker hand With a cash result, and he " blued " it Over the local brand — His wife was a heathen beauty Bought with an ancient gun, Who reckoned, no doubt, she'd done her duty Once she'd borne him a son. Someone — a parson, maybe. Told him to pack and " git " — Get him an English wife and baby And all the rest of it ; Tried to induce a craving For the isle across the foam, " I couldn't put up w^ith the daily shaving " Said the Man Who Wouldn't Go Home. He wasn't a nice example. His morals, I grant, were few, But there's many a rottener sample Renting a stiff-backed pew — Battered, bleary, and broken. He shot as a sportsman should, And many a native, more's the token, Knew that his word was good. 54 THE MAN WHO WOULDN'T GO HOME What is the proper moral ? How should such creatures end ? Shot in a drunken quarrel ? Lynched for cheating his friend ? No ! In the tangled jungle Where the Elephant People roam He stood his ground as the great beasts thundered, Gave his life for a boy who'd blundered — That's how the man went Home. THE BACHELOR'S DOG " She's coming ! " — so he said to-day, over the mid- day bone, " Cheer up, you bhghter ! " — so he said, '' we shan't be long alone ! She'll give us decent food at last — buck up, and wag your tail ! The Only Woman's on the way — She's coming by the mail ! " The deuce She is ! and who is She, when all is said and done ? Some fuzzy, fluffy Thing in skirts that's never seen a gun ! My sacred tail ! I used to think he knew his' way about, But here's a horrid incubus he's been and ordered out! 55 56 THE BACHELOR'S DOG What'll She do when lions prowl around about the camp ? What'll She do at early dawn, when all the paths are damp ? Wow ! what a muddle ! What a mug my poor old boss must be To go and do a thing like this without consulting me ! I wonder if She's any good at following a trail ? (Probably couldn't tell the scent of buffalo from quail !) I bet She shrieks like blazes when She sees her first fat rat, What's more, I bet she makes me wipe my paws upon the mat ! Oh, Bwana ! Bwana ! — You and I have had a gorgeous time ! Why do you go and spoil it now when we are in our prime ? What are the elephants going to do? and what becomes of ME The while you sit and drivel with this Thing from oversea ? THE BACHELOR'S DOG 57 Have you forgotten all the days we've spent upon the plains ? The steaming, soppy camps we've had together in the Rains, The days I've been without a bite from sun-up to the dark Following up the Herd ahead with never a yelp nor bark ? You can't be lonely, surely, when I'm lying by the bed? I mayn't be much to look at, but I'm fairly cleanly bred — I can't play Bridge, or Poker — but you've pals about that can. And anyway, the Thing that's coming out is not a Man ! Give me a bone and let me think ! my world has gone to bits — Our peaceful days have given place to fifty thousand fits ! She'll bust the contract, just you see ! and, when my tail's a-droop, You'll know She's taken all my bones and made them into soup ! TO THE GIRL WHO WOULDN'T COME Give me the sun on the river, the misty dawn on the plain, The mealie-leaves a-quiver, spangled with gems of rain, The tiny, grey-roofed dwellings with twisting smoke above And take and hold the gain and the gold, or whatever your soul may love ! Fate, in forgotten ages, set me here in the wild. Wrote in her mildewed pages, '' This shall be Nature's child," Drew me out from the clamour, set my feet to the south And left you there in the City's snare with 9, mocking word in your mouth, TO THE GIRL WHO WOULDN'T COME 59 You were Her pet invention, bound to the whirring wheel Of costive, cramped convention with bonds of the sternest steel, Delicate, deftly-tempered, clad in a gauzy gown — That was your lot — to be left to rot in the grimy maze of Town. Hunger and Thirst a-creeping — Death, and his twin, Disease, These would have brought you, weeping, on to your dainty knees — Cold as a clear-cut crystal, jewelled like an even- ing star. With your infinite grace you dared not face the stress of Things that Are ! Once, I believed you mattered — hailed you a Goddess then. Till you left me, gold-bespattered, for the safer haunts of men ; But now ... a gun on the mountain-side, and a glimpse of the game ahead — You may languish there, and grapple despair, and pray your God you were dead ! ON THE VERANDAH Out on the dim verandah, God stooped to me and said, "You've v^asted a day of the Hfe I gave — and a wasted day is dead ! What have you done in My world to-day ? " — I smiled as I repHed : " I've saved a child from the bite of a snake ! " And God was satisfied. Out on the dim verandah, when bats were wheeling low, Again God came, and I felt His Wings, and I saw The Presence glow — " You've wasted a day ! " said God to me — but swiftly I replied : '' I have saved the crops of a thousand men ! " And God was satisfied. ON THE VERANDAH 61 Out on the dim verandah, when stars were twinkhng clear, The Godhead came, and I saw the Light that gleamed as He drew near ; '' What have you done this day ? " He asked. I thought, and then replied : " I have tried the cause of an injured man ! " And God was satisfied. Out on the dim verandah, when twihght hours were past, God came once more, and His Breath was cold, and I felt the icy blast — " You have lost to-day ! " said God to me, and I shuddered as I repHed : " I have written a page of a book to-day ! " And God was wroth, and cried : ''Those that I set to govern men have work enough in sight — Crops to garner, and Hves to save, and wrongs to set aright ! Books forsooth ! " — and He smote His Thigh, and the world grew dark for me, And I woke to find I was chained in Hell, to write for Eternity. THE OLD STORY A YEAR ago we said goodbye — In a crimson mist the sun went down — A year ago and our hearts were high (Heigho ! London Town !) A year ago and the world was mine, The sun was bright on the crested trees, And Love reached over the fields of brine (Heigho ! and the rolling seas !) One short year — and I thought to glean Glory, and God knows what beside, But the curse of Africa came between (Heigho ! for the fields untried !) Chipped tin plates, and a leaking hut, Faces black as the Yawning Pit, And the Door of Hope is tightly shut — (Heigho ! and the gloom of it !) THE OLD STOKY 63 I'm poorer now than I was before, Treading the grim, predestined road, Bills are mounting at every store — (Heigho ! and the debtor's load !) One short year ? 'Twill be nearer ten Ere the cable flashes across the sea, And you pack your trunks for the voyage — and then — What of the years Fate owes to me ? BEFORE DAWN Still was the camp — so deathly still That dry twigs snapped Hke the Whip of Doom, And a pale, green moon cUmbed up the hill, And the shadows lay, so cold, so chill. Shimmering shreds of gloom. Never a sound where the men were laid Stretched and swathed on the earthy floor, Save for a sigh when, half afraid, A sleeper moved, at his dream dismayed. And sank to his sleep once more. The moon climbed up, and she poised on high, And looked awhile in a cold disdain. Flashed her searchlights 'thwart the sky, Lit the river that rumbled by And took her path again. 64 BEFORE DAWN 65 Still was the camp — so cold, so still In the dim dead hours before the dawn, When a cry rang out to the far-off hill, And marrow and bones went cold and chill, And slumber was forsworn. For a lion slunk in the deeper shade, And his footfall thudded low — so low — Over the grass of a tiny glade ; Hardly a sound — but the die was played, And he took a man from the row. THE COUNCILLOR Old, indeed, as his people go — three score years and ten, He sat in the dusky council-place and swayed the minds of men ; Chief ? Why, no ! Nor a Village Head — nor blood nor rank he knew, But the people hushed to the words he said, the still, hot hours through. Bleary, battered and broken down — but his law was clean and sound. Law that had swayed his people's fate full many a cycle round — Law of the Crop and law of the Chase, and law of the Man and Wife, The concrete rules of a savage race that govern the Simple Life. THE COUNCILLOR 67 Slow and low were the words he spoke, and each fell trim and plumb, And the Chief himself leaned forward once as he ravelled out the sum ; Marked each point with a skinny hand, weighed and balanced again, Quoted the changeless Law of the Land as he made the issue plain. Passionless as an ice-machine — dreary and dry as dust — A pitiful, wistful Might-have-been, but sure of the People's trust ; Sure of his logic, sure of the Law, summoned to solve the knot Of a twopenny-halfpenny case that bore on the right to a broken pot ! ^ i\i >:< >k Just the same, in the olden days, they sat in their silent rows, When men were brought to the judgment-seat to be tried for the eyes or nose ; Just the same when they burned a man with the partner in his sin. Sure of the changeless Law of the Land— bent upon " rubbing it in." '^ ■>:< ^ ik 68 THE COUNCILLOR I sat at ease in a patch of shade and thought of the busy Strand, Of ponderous buildings where men strive to grasp the Law of the Land, Of a milhon hes that obscure the truth, of trickery, sham, chicane — There's many a " tip " to be learned, in sooth, from the Villages of the Plain ! TWO SONGS FROM THE MASHONA AFRICAN SLUMBER SONG Sleep, Baby mine ! The jackals by the river Are caUing soft across the dim lagoon, Where tufted rows of mealies stand a-quiver Under a silver moon. Little One, sleep ! The cattle, softly lowing, Seek once again the shelter of the kraal — To-morrow come the reaping and the sowing — To-night the shadows fall. Little One, sleep ! Grow stalwart in your sleeping ! The kraal is ringed with fires, redly bright — Out in the forest tracks the beasts are creeping — Sleep, Baby mine, to-night ! TWO SONGS FROM THE MASHONA II AFRICAN LOVE SONG Marupiya, Marupiya ! all the world is hushed and dumb, And the girls have ceased their singing, and the cattle are at rest, And the men are droning softly to the rumble of the drum, And the fireflies are dancing in the west — But the woods will sing their songs for us alone. And the Gods will teach us secrets of their own — Come ! Marupiya, come ! Treading softly past the Headmen, by the fires we will go — Marupiya, Marupiya, we are happier than they ! 70 TWO SONGS FROM THE MASHONA 71 For the youth in them has shrivelled, and their blood has turned to snow, And they dream of a forgotten yesterday ! Are there Spirits in the forest ? Let them be, They are good to honest lovers, such as we — Stay, Marupiya, stay ! RETROSPECT What of the years of strife, Lucette, Far out beyond the pale ? What of the thoughts that haunt me yet Upon the backward trail ? — I've sinned red sins that mount apace, But must I then forget The tender grace that lit your face Amid the mignonette ? What of the traps that lurk, Lucette, Beyond the world you're in ? (Dim bushland solitudes are set With trapfall and with gin !) No woman's hand is here to lead, No kiss to kill regret — We follow here a sterner creed Than 'mid the mignonette. 72 RETROSPECT 73 Oft in the silent camp, Lucette, At darkling hour of dawn I dream of hours when we met Amid the English thorn — Out of those peaceful English days I blundered forth — and yet — Your picture treads the tangled ways Next to my heart, Lucette ! IN THE SMOKE Delicate wisps of grey and filmy blue Athwart the sky — Red leaping sparks, that pierce the darkness through And fall, and die. Sprinkle of stars, swung high above the trees, And, clear of ray, A low, sad moon — the cadence of the breeze And boughs a-sway. These for the setting ; and, beneath it all. Tattered and scarred, My tent, set up in some wide glade, where tall Dim trees keep guard. * =1= ^ * The high-piled logs are reddening to the heart, The ash lies deep Feathery-white — and, in a space apart. Lie men asleep. 74 IN THE SMOKE 75 So, in a silence of the early world, I sit and gaze Upon the pictures, open and unfurled Amid the haze. Faces of men and women of the past, Well-loved — and dead ; Cities through whose dim ways my feet have passed With pilgrim tread — Lights, and soft music, and a crimson rain Of rare, sweet flowers — Pleasure most prodigal, shot through with pain Of vanished hours — Sounds of the sea — and glimpses of white waves And biting spray — Cypress, and myrtle — well-remembered graves Of yesterday. . . . * >\i >i'' * These in the smoke — that veil which fools the eyes And links the past Up with the future — till the fire dies Black out at last. GRAVES OF THE NORTH Only a few — wide-scattered through the land, Sun-kissed, wind-swept, and scorched by forest fire. Grey mounds of earth to mark the dead White Hand, Grim tributes to an Empire's wide desire. Stretching afield through barren waste and wild Till Heathendom and She are reconciled. Only a few — yet mighty in degree, Though humbly screened from forest beasts of prey — Crosses rough-hewn from some primaeval tree, Lines of sad brick to bar the right of way Bounding the track where heathen feet may tread (Since White Men all are jealous of their dead). 76 GRAVES OF THE NORTH 77 Maybe, a trader, peacefully asleep (His bond, at least, was good — his word was true) ; Some missionary, with wild fields to reap, Groping in dim, black brains to find a clue ; Some hunter, say, all torn and wrenched awry By gleaming claws, or curved, sharp ivory. Or, once again, amid the press of men. Where bugles blare Reveille and Retreat, Some young official, snatched to silence when His sphere of usefulness was incomplete — Sadness, and tears, and bitterness of soul To blunt the triumph of the scarce-found goal. Their lives were given in a gallant cause — And we, most humbly, mark their resting- place, Whether they made, or gave, or kept the laws That bring contentment to an alien race — So, while the Empire cycle goes its round, Our Northern graves are, surely, holy ground. A RIDDLE OF ROADS Is it better to move in the morning On paths that are dappled with dew, Where cavernous chasms are yawning Through lands that are painfully new ? Or is it still better to wander In streets that have pavements as well, And shops, with enticements to squander ? . I wish I could tell ! The ripple and rush of the river ? The thud and the talk of the Town ? Sad spaces where leaves are a-quiver ? Gaiety, glamour and gown ? These are the things that perplex one — Which should one choose of the two ? Should silence or shouting annex one ? . . . If only one knew ! . . 78 A RIDDLE OF ROADS 79 Here is a town in a clearing (Town, say, for courtesy's sake), Tender green mealies are peering Out of each thicket and brake — There are the charms of the city, Men you can shake by the hand, Women who smile and look pretty . . . Which is the land ? . . . Here, you must walk or be carried — There you may roll in your car — Here it is best to be married, There, you can stay as you are — Who has the best of it really, The tramp, or the man in the train ? It's hard to adjudicate clearly . . . Ask me again ! THEN AND NOW We came with muscles tense and taut, With youthful hearts aflame, Pulsing with fresh, untrammelled thought, Keen on the new-found game — But now, the red has burned to grey And glamour rocks on feet of clay. We tramp not, as we tramped of old Across the rolling vast ; The patterns of green grass and gold Have wearied us at last ; And, though we love the country still, We do not toil up every hill. Yet, in exchange, our souls have won A certain meed of peace, We need not fret till set of sun To win desired release. . . . The bushland borders of our ken Must hold us ever — now as then. THE PIONEERS Partly for sake of the gold At the Rainbow's End, Glamour of old tales told At the gloom of day. Partly, too, for the peace Wide spaces lend, Sought we the soft release Of the Far Away. Bush and valley and hill, And a pastel sky, Woodland spaces still In the hush of noon. Angry cities of men Set safely by — • What could one ask for then As a greater boon ? 82 THE PIONEERS Wide, slow rivers set In their banks of green, Forests, immune as yet From an alien tread — Stretches of golden plain In a hazy sheen — Shall we turn to the town again For our life instead? Let them laugh if they will In their towns of gold, Men of the mart and mill Where the stamps grind on- Our lives are empty of care, And gaily scrolled. And the wild will still be there When the stamps are gone. AN OPEN LETTER {To John Brown, Esq., Little Sliisheni, England) Dear Sir, I take my pen in hand With some sHght trepidation, To write you from a heathen land Anent your education. You speak in phrases ripe and round, Well polished, and in order. Of " Men who keep the Frontier Ground," And " Men who make the Border." On Sunday evenings, in your pew, You thrill with proud vibration To think that you are bone and thew Of God's first-favoured nation. Your measured periods, slightly vague, Leave us no room to doubt it, And yet . . . you shun, as 'twere the plague, All literature about it ! 84 AN OPEN LETTER How White Men live in heathen lands, And what they run the show on, Has no such interest in your hands As ''Hints on Golf" — and so on. While Mrs. Brown, whose tender heart Bleeds at the ''heathen's hovel," Leaves "all that heavy stuff" apart, And picks — the latest novel ! Your critics, too, with faintest praise. Will damn the wretched writer Who, slaving through the tropic days, Ne'er finds his burden lighter. "... This latest book on Bungaboo Has partially succeeded . . . The writer scores a point or two . . . Amusing — but unneeded ! . . ." As for their luckless poets — nay, It sets the tears a-rippling — Them you would gladly boil and flay Because — you've heard of Kipling ! AN OPEN LETTER 85 Dear Mr. Brown, I know you well, Although I've never met you — I spent some years in Smugdom's hell. And never shall forget you. If ''Empire" really thrills your soul, And not mere bald convention, For goodness' sake, then, pay the toll And study with intention ! Get farther from the parish pump ! Take out your brains and brush 'em ! The Empire's politics do not jump With those of Little Slushem ! BUSH MADRIGAL My letters came this morning, Packed full of weary warning ; They write that life is flying, That those I know are dying — But freedom's sweet ! I hate the Street, Its selling and its buying ! Let others bear the burden, So be they prize the guerdon — Be mine the bushland spaces And Nature's tender traces — For me, indeed, I see no need To woo the Town's embraces ! Too well I know its glamour, Its brazen-throated clamour, BUSH MADRIGAL 87 Its pitiful contriving, Its lying and its striving — Too well I know Its sinners go With never hope of shriving. The waste of bricks and mortar Ruled by King Sorrow's Daughter — Full horrid trades are plied there, And luckless wights are tied there — God help the man (None other can !) Who's fated to abide there ! TO AN OLD RIFLE You're worn in the barrel, you're gone in the stock, Your sights are deceptive and battered askew, You're foul in the breech and you're crank in the lock, Yet I love you far more than I loved you when new ! I've done a fair quotum of stalking and shooting, Old Rifle, with you. You didn't cost much ! — you were bought second- hand (For times were too hard, and my purse was too thin !) I saw you one day in a shop in the Strand, Loved you, and longed for you — aye, and went in! The shop-fellow fingered you lovingly — said that your price was a sin. TO AN OLD RIFLE 89 Whose were you before ? shall I hazard a view ? Were you loot of a lord, or a wandering earl ? Just kit of a '^ champagne-safari " or two ? Or sold by a man who had married his girl, Forsaking the elephant-track lest it put her dear hair out of curl ? The point's unimportant — we'll waive it and pass. You're mine for the present, and mine you'll remain ! Ten years we have wandered through African grass, Ten years we've been shooting in bushland and plain, It's told on us both, more or less — but I'm blest if I'll sell you again ! Remember the lion I grazed in the head Who charged us that night in the bed of the stream ? He shewed us, in sooth (since we thought he was dead), That things are but rarely the same as they seem, And he was a gem, I remember ; uncommonly broad in the beam. 90 TO AN OLD RIFLE That elephant cow, with the fat little calf Who curtsied and bobbed when we tried to get by, Till I shot her at last. And the idiot giraffe Who gibbered away with his head in the sky That morning we followed the rhino, and seemed so determined to die. Yes ! Eland and hartebeeste, sable and roan, Puku and reedbuck you've shot by the score — Elephant-paths we have followed alone, Safety-catch over and eyes on the spoor. Days, that are finished and done with, Old Rifle ! It's never no more ! Ah well ! Those are days that are vanished and dead! And gone are the dawn and the dusk on the plain. It's Tooting, or Balham, or Clapham instead — These are our lot for the years that remain . . . But while there's a pull-through to clean you, I'm damned if I'll sell you again. GOBLIN GOLD "You'll always find the best gold over the rise." Pi-osfector^s maxim. Where levels run to the slopes, and the slopes run up to the ridge, And the heat-haze hangs in the air, and the shadows shorten amain, Where the pathway crosses the river, over a crazy bridge, And wriggles, through tangled bushland, into the open again — Where man's but a flustered rabbit against the beasts of the plain, And heathen magic's afoot when sunset shadows the skies. We'll hitch up our " shorts " and tighten our belts to the old refrain — ** Africa's tough, my God ! . . . but there's gold just over the rise I " 91 92 GOBLIN GOLD Walk for a score of miles, red-hot, in a blazing land, Spurt for the pool pricked out on the map in the cool of dawn To find but a thirsty frog — and then you may understand Africa's jests, and the men from whom her lovers are drawn ! . . . Lovers, said I ? in sooth, her vows are most for- sworn, Her kiss bites deep like an asp, and there's death in her sleepy eyes. But think of an English stream and a field of waving corn. And God will help you believe that there's gold just over the rise ! There's several kinds of gold — red gold, that is minted clean, That buys you Heaven and Hell with a careless dash of the pen, And shadowy Gold o' Dreams that speaks of the Might Have Been, Of the dizzy gulfs that yawn betwixt the Now and the Then. GOBLIN GOLD 93 There's Gold of Honour and Fame and the meed of pubhc ken, And gold of an aim achieved, of a sober life and wise, But never a kind of gold that passes the test of men To rank with the Goblin Gold ^^ou're out for — over the rise ! A BALLAD IN SEASON Out of the brazen heat Where furnace breezes blow, And where, beneath the feet, The soft red sand's aglow, Homeward our greetings go From barren lands and lean — 'Tis Christmastide, I trow. Though waves roll wide between. Patter of heathen feet. Dark forms that mop and mow, Dim passion and deceit So be it ! — Even so The stream of years that flow Is spanned to-night, I ween, Nor love nor friendship know The waves that roll between. 94 A BALLAD IN SEASON 95 Here, in the dusty street, Hot rains are driving low, And bush and sunset meet In misty afterglow. There, where you wait, a-row Tall houses make a screen. Curtained in ice and snow. And waves roll wide between. L'Envoi 'Twas God Who planned it so — And Christmas aye has been A link 'twixt sun and snow, Though waves roll wide between. AFRICAN AUTHORS Pity the men who are fated to scribe Under the glare of the tropical sun, Striving for cash, or some fugitive bribe, Weary ere day has begun. Pity the brains that must work to a drum Beaten to quicken the beer-sodden feet Down in the village with heathenish hum (Ink has gone dry with the heat). ■'!< -^ ^ t- Better to cope with the bustle and roar, Fever of Fleet Street, or song of the Strand — Easier, there, to keep wolf from the door Than in this heathenish land . . . ! There, there are brains to strike sparks with one's own — Here are but monkey-folk, shallow and sly ! Wits that one has one must sharpen alone Under a coppery sky. AFRICAN AUTHORS 97 Shadow and sunshine, and plateau and plain, Vacant horizons and silence supreme, Mile upon mile of a heathen domain Framing the scribbler's dream. Never a newspaper hot from the press, Fresh from the hub where the nations are twirled. Never a message to help one to guess What is going on in the world. * * * H« Picture your writers, perspiring, "broke," Shirtsleeved, and sullen, and slack as the deuce ! Truly, ambition goes upward like smoke, Scatters . . . and — what is the use ? THE LAMENT OF ABDULLAH-BIN-SULIMAN There's peace on the northern border — has been, this many a year ; Gone are the loot, and the strings of slaves — gone for ever, I fear ! Government harries us far and wide — there's never a tusk in the country-side . . . And what, in the name of the Prophet, does Abdullah-bin- Suliman here ? Close upon forty years ago I traded from Zanzibar With a caravan of a thousand slaves gathered from near and far, Down from Ujiji, across the Lake . . . ah, those days ! . . . there was money to make ! Plenty of women and rubber and guns — and mine was a lucky star ! ABDULLAH-BIN-SULIMAN 99 Young we were — and agile — and keen ! red blood in our veins aglow, And Fate and the women were kind enough as we journeyed to and fro — Tabora — Kasanga — Cameron Bay — Love, and loot, and a passing fray To while the tedium now and again — but it's long enough ago ! * * ^ 5ic I, forsooth, was the pioneer, trusted to spy the land — Wemba, Lungu, and Tawa Chiefs lay in the palm of my hand — East and west there was work to do . . . north- ward into the Congo too, Till the British flag came up from the south and scattered our little band. Hasani there ! he was just a youth, nimble and brisk and gay — Look at his palsied, shrivelled hands, and his beard of grizzled grey ! Ngombesazi is just the same ... he was one of the few that came, Took him wives, and settled him down, and lingers here to-day. 100 ABDULLAH-BIN-SULIMAN If Juma starts with a caravan, there's money to be paid — Duty on rubber, duty on tusks, everything checked and weighed ! A rule for this and a rule for that (and trust the PoUce to have them pat !) Why, if a man but kills his wife, a terrible fuss is made ! We're tucked away in a heathen tribe of " shenzi " dogs forsworn, With never a mosque or a minaret where the muezzin chants at dawn — Chief of a tribe of carrion-crowds, with poisonous huts in filthy rows. By Beard of the Prophet, Abdullah may rue the day that he was born ! THE CROCODILE KINGS Hemmed about by swamp and bushland, barriered by mighty lakes Dwelt the Benangandu Chieftains in their tangled, matted brakes — Autocrats who swayed their peoples not by knife or fire alone, Not alone by mutilation or the sacrificial stone, But in virtue of their Kingship — Chieftains to the very bone. Capped in scarlet parrots' feathers, draped in vesture wild and weird, Beaded, bangled, and barbaric, reverenced and rudely feared. Lords of life and limb unquestioned, Kings of Crop and Kings of Clan, Swayed they thus their forest silence on the old, primaeval plan Till the White Men came among them, and the new regime began. 101 102 THE CROCODILE KINGS (Scorn we not such savage kingdoms ! It is easy to deride Setting up our modern standards, arrogant in modern pride — Education ? — sanitation ? — had they these and all the rest? Maybe not ! . . . but dare we, therefore, claim our system as the best When, through ages long-forgotten. Chieftainship has stood the test ?) Picture, say, the Chief at sunset, rising from his judgment-seat Where, in front, the men are sitting, women kneel- ing at his feet — Mark the councils bow before him, he the only man erect — Wachilolo — City Guardians — Wakabiro, bell-be- decked — Lords of Districts — Lords of Frontiers, and a host of the elect. Old and cramped, and very weary, he has sat there since the dawn, Disentangled many a lawsuit, punished many a wife forsworn, THE CROCODILE KINGS 103 Dealt with crops, and tithe and tribute, set his seal on vested right. Thrown out forays to his borders, armies to enforce his might, Earned, at least, the peace of sunset, and the silence of the night. Tyrant ? . . . Yes, no doubt in measure — cruel, and greedy of his sway (Since his people scorn the chicken, but make gods of beasts of prey !) Had he faltered once, or wavered, passed he swiftly, stiff and cold To the groves of sad Mwaruli, haunted by the Kings of old- He who rules a savage nation must a savage rule uphold. THE PRICE OF EMPIRE What will it look like when you're gone ? Your flowers shall be just the same, I'll give them water in your name At dawn and sunset, Marion . . . I'll watch your roses day by day The weary while that you're away. Can you believe it ? that, to-night, You look your last upon the scene : Our garden — maze of spangled green That we designed, with hearts aUght, Ten years ago ? . . . Look where we set That crescent bed of mignonette. Ten years ago ! But years are winged In these dim, silent, heathen lands — This garden, moulded by our hands, Set with rich blossoms, and beringed With trim-cut fences could not lie — It warned us how the years flew by. 104 THE PRICE OF EMPIRE 105 At first — we laughed, you know, and said, "What do we want but just ourselves — A garden for the flower-elves, And books, perhaps, when daylight's dead . . . So, we'll be happy as the day Though London Town is years away." And then — the child came, and we knew Our world had held a void before, And day by day we massed a store Of nursery legends, and we grew To feel that here was Paradise . . . And now — to-night — we pay the price. A price wrung out in drops of blood, Paid by the woman and the man On the far Empire-edge, who plan Their lives together . . . and find the flood Of Fate's too strong . . . and, for the child, Must face their parting in the wild. The child, who drew us closer still, Who made our life a perfect whole. Who dowered our garden with a soul, Who bent us, smiling, to his will— His are the hands to break the spell And turn our Paradise to Hell ! 106 THE PRICE OF EMPIRE Sweet though they be, these heathen lands, They cannot rear the White Man's child, Heir to the Ages, running wild In tangled bush and burning sand . . . We owe them much — ten years of joy — But — they hold nothing for the boy ! (Look ! The young moon slips up the sky Clear-cut and clean — no hint of rain — Your three-weeks' journey to the train Should be propitious — cool, and dry. When the first rains begin, you'll be A week or more upon the sea.) * ♦ * ^ Well ! Let's go in ! it's getting late, And I've a thousand things to do To-morrow morning . . . we must screw A top-lid on the silver crate . . . And then, those trunks of his, you know . . Ah God ! . . . That you should have to go. RHODES'S DREAM Up from the Cape where the wild seas thunder, Over the Falls, where a haze of spray Keeps the North and the South asunder, Swings she swift on her headlong way — Speeding tireless, night and day, Past the Lakes in their magic chain, Waking the Desert to wide-eyed wonder, Racketing, rocketing, roars the Train. A silver wedge in the bushland spaces Cleaving North through a heathen land, Stamping the wild with the White Man's traces. Trimming the rough for the Master Hand, Girdling earth with a magic band, Lighting the night with a steady gleam, Meeting dawn in the far-off places. These are the fruits of Rhodes's Dream ! i07 108 RHODES'S DREAM Beasts scared off from the pools at dawning Grunt and growl as she rumbles by, Forest-folk in the misty morning Gaze aghast ere they turn to fly — Trim and true is each bolt and tie, Trestle and culvert snugly laid, (Now and again at the whistle's warning Elephants trumpet down the glade). " Cape to Cairo ! — Steamer to Steamer ! Rail and wire from South to North. . . ." Men guffawed at the Master Schemer, Fools waxed loud in their foohsh wrath . . . But the project held, and the words went forth. Sister-nations hurried to aid, Stung by the dream of a dumb, dead Dreamer, Men toiled on till the rails were laid. Out of the South where the ships are plying, Into the clutch of the parched Karroo, Past the crags where his bones are lying Under their slab on the World's wide View . . . 'Tis none so long since the world was new And the mammoth moved in eternal snows. But the dream he dreamed when he lay a-dying Bids to come true. And perhaps — he knows. NIGER, SED PULCHERRIMUS I CAUGHT him raw, and very dense, Unregistered by any owner, Entirely devoid of sense. Was this Mashona. To teach his " young idea " to shoot, I blush to say I sometimes hit him ; I've clothed him in a canvas suit Which doesn't fit him. I've learnt his speech, his clicks and gasps, And sometimes I essay a parley. But all his understanding grasps Is ''futi mah." Breathes there a youth with soul so dead ? Breathes there a nigger any denser ? Decidedly he's not been bred To " Umsebenza." 109 no NIGER, SED PULCHERRIMUS He's never yet been wide awake, (Or if he was I failed to "spot" him) ; I think God made him by mistake. And then forgot him. He cannot learn to fold my suits, He will put sheets outside the blanket ; I gave him stuff to clean my boots, Of course, he drank it. His notions are distinctly crude Of rights of " meum " and ^' tuum " ; To men at large his attitude Is just — to do ^em. Boys will be boys — I'm not surprised That this one should be sometimes frisky, But still, he's not been authorized To drink my whisky. In brief he riles me — on the whole This nigger I would gladly smother. And yet, they say, he has a soul, And is — my Brother ! NIGER, SED PULCHERRIMUS ! Ill May God preserve me, all the same, From such a family connection, Vve no desire to press the claim In this direction ! A SONG OF PRAISE {Bui away 0, 1906) We are the Salt of the Earth ! We are the Chosen Elect ! We are the Few who have worried things through, Let us with garlands be decked. Here's to the snuffy-faced Stiff ! Here's to the old Pioneer! Here's to the crowd who can chuckle aloud At the shadowy mention of Beer ! Our bills may be heavy and long, our pockets be empty of tin, That's nothing to do with myself or with you Provided we never go in. Here's to the Broke-to-the World, Let him be sung by the bards, Ay coming it strong, he may worry along, And live by the signing of cards. 112 A SONG OF PRAISE 113 " Mali," Mosquitoes, and Mud — they are the plagues of our life, The Heathen, the Heat and the prices of meat Are matters that lead us to strife. We growl at the want of Police, We rail at the prices of Drink, But, with drinks that were free, and more B.S.A.P., We'd bump up against it, I think. What of the taxes we pay ? What of the thirty per cent ? So long as we find a landlord inclined To wink at our dodging the rent. Here's to the down-trodden Poor ! Here's to the Weak and Oppressed ! For the Gods will be good in the matter of food, And the deuce will look after the rest. POINTS OF VIEW Shall we instruct the savage ? Ah, my brothers, take heed, Lest we ruin and ravage A Soul in its tender need ! Teach him his soul's salvation. Teach him to read and write. To solve the subtle equation Black plus black equals white He is an infant, merely- Ignorant — there's the rub — Yours very sincerely, Timothy Thumpatub. II What ? Should we teach the nigger ? Teach him sebenza — Yes ! Teach him to write and figure ? Absolute rot, I guess ! 114 POINTS OF VIEW 115 Teach him his right position, Teach him to earn his bread, And, if he starts sedition, Hammer him over the head ! Niggers ain't worth a d n, sir. Their soul's a mighty big If ! — And so, to conclude — I am, sir. Yours (signed) Solomon Stiff. Ill Should we instruct the heathen ? Sir, such a question hurts ! What do you think's the reason I make him collars and shirts ? Why do I send him Bibles ? Why do I knit him socks ? Sir, your remarks are libels, And your suggestion shocks. Natives are sadly harried — I weep for them, one and all — Yours, in disgust — '' Unmarried," Care of Exeter Hall, 116 POINTS OF VIEW IV Funa fundisa Black Boy ? Longili ! Very much mush' ! Boss chela mina slack boy, Boss niga mina push. If mina azi figure, Learn how to read and write, Me become mushle nigger. Me very much alright. If mina azi bara Me writee pass for drink — (Mr.) Mafuta Mompara, Care of the Warder, Clink, ''RATION B" {The Government ration allowed to Destitute British Subjects) Pepper and salt and a twist of tea, Flour, a couple of pounds or less, And a tin of beef — that's Ration B, The price of the D.B.S. A White Man's white, and a nigger's black. And I've heard of kids that are cafe-au-lait, But the man that's down on the bone of his back Is a nasty kind of grey. He isn't fish and he isn't fowl . . . Niggers grin when he shambles by — The parson-man with the shaven jowl Blinks with a furtive eye. 117 118 "KATION B" Beautiful ladies twitch their skirts Thinking he must be drunk, I guess— I don't suppose they reckon it hurts The pride of the D.B.S. Fm talking now of the things I know. Things I've seen as I've passed along Pacing Africa to and fro Ever since things went wrong. I'm not a drunkard, funny enough — I buried a wife on the Other Side (Game right through — but she cut up rough The year the youngster died). I've known the nights in a native kraal, Rats and bugs and a host of fleas — Tired and sick and sorry and all . . . And far worse things than these ! Many a black man's done me proud, Set me down to a steaming mess And I've starved in the thick of a Europe crowd, Being only a D.B.S. ! "RATION B" 119 I've seen a White Man togged to the nines Look me up and then look me down, And wink a jibe to his heathen swines In a so-called Christian town. Once on a time, in the Far Away, I could have bought him, body and soul, Seen him cringe for his weekly pay, Touch his hat for a dole. Now — the pendulum's swung too wide, Swung me out of my own estate — Who cares tuppence what may betide The Man Who Didn't Run Straight? '' Give him another chance," you say ? '' Help him straighten the coil he laid ? " Devil a bit, kind sir ! Not they I " Let him lie on the bed he made ! *' Sit on his head and hold him down ! " — That's the Good Samaritan touch ! " Hound him out of a decent town ! "Give him a chance? NOT MUCH! 120 "RATION B" " Set him square on the Northern track Give him a gun and his Ration B — Pray to God he never comes back . . . That's v^hat they did to me. Pepper and salt, and a twist of tea, Flour a couple of pounds or less . . . But if charity's wanting in Ration B, God help the D.B.S. ! TO MOTHER AFRICA After Ten Years I WAS pretty young and foolish when I came, The things I knew were fairly few and small — I was eaten up with shame, but you took me just the same, And you taught me, Mother Africa, to try and play the game As men play it out beyond the City Wall. I'd been cosseted and petted in the past — I was frightened at the silence in the wild, But your net was neatly cast. And you gripped and held me fast. And I thank you. Mother Africa ! I thank you, at the last For the trouble that you've taken with your child. 121 122 TO MOTHER AFRICA There are millions who know nothing of your spell, And revile you for your cruelty and pain — '' Out in Africa," they say, " Men are lost and thrown away." We know better, Mother Africa ! your children come to stay, And they never scale the City Wall again ! I will grant them, there is sorrow in your school, There is agony, and misery, and death — And a man is but your tool, Be he genius or a fool. Yet no matter. Mother Africa ! we glory in your rule. For you've saved us from the fetid City breath. In ten long years I've learned to love the chain (Though, sometimes, every fetter's bound to gall), Though you've tutored me in pain, If God grant me ten again. You shall have them. Mother Africa, so long as you remain Untrammelled, and outside the City Wall. tSbe ©resbam press UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED WOKING AND LONDON THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.00 ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. YB 47282 308081 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY