From Africa
What's the word from Africa?
Kruger strikes at last.
Now he's where we've wanted him for ten years past.
Watch us while we do him up. Progress rules to-day.
Boers, get a move on you! Don't block the way!
Rude men, gross men, men averse to soap.
Bigots all, and ignorant; far too dull to cope
Equally with Englishmen trained to modern skill.
Now's our chance to show them how—ay, and so we will!
What's the news from Africa? Kimberley's shut in,
And Mafeking and Ladysmith. Still we're sure to win!
But dining at Pretoria this coming Christmas Day
Depends, it seems, in some degree, on what Joubert may say.
Rude men, gross men, obstinate as mules;
Fighters with a most uncivil disregard of rules;
Churlish farmers, ready though, when summons comes, to die,
To prove their right to dwell in dirt, each freeman in his sty.
What's the news from Africa? Things are getting hot.
Methuen's crazy! Wauchope's killed! Gatacre's gone to pot!
They've captured regiments of hussars. At every rifle crack
A smokeless message speeds to drape a British home in black.
Help! help! help! there, and send it mighty quick!
Sort your generals, you at home, and let us have the pick!
Rush in more of everything! God help us if we lose!
We're up against as grim a crowd as ever stood in shoes.
Up rose Britain's might at that. Up rose Britain's hair.
Where are Bobs and Kitchener? Quick! They're wanted there!
Off, you ornamental chaps! Now show what you're for!
Sixty thousand not enough? Send twice as many more!
Rude men, gross men! Heavens! how they shoot!
Gentle with our wounded, too; not so wholly brute
As not to be the masters of the game of war they play,
And play it in a singularly self-respectful way!
What's the news from Africa? All the world inquires;
Canada—her sons are there—stands listening at the wires.
Lo, Australia anxious, too! and India just as much,
While British drums beat round the world defiance to the Dutch.
Defiance to the laggard Dutch, too far behind the time
To understand the ever-modern estimate of crime,
Which deems it sin in Heaven's sight and folly before man
To question right of Might to grab whosever land it can.
What's the news from Africa? The tide begins to turn.
Brains at last make crushing numbers harvest what they earn.
Rhodes is out of Kimberley; Ladysmith's relieved.
So is London. Roberts did it. Chamberlain's reprieved.
Cronje's at St. Helena; Kruger's in the field
—Tough old boy—and still the cry is, “Boers never yield!”
Yield they must, though; odds too great; yield and pay the bill.
So many pounds for so much blood that England had to spill!
Boers? How about them now? Dirty? Rude? Uncouth?
More like models, nowadays, for hopeful British youth.
Teachers of their pedagogues. Training men to try
To prod the erring gently lest he smite them on the eye.
Softly with them, Britons now! Softly as may be!
You know them better than you did; you do, and so do we.
Men who fight as Boers fight—surely they are worth
Freedom, and a title clear to some poor roods of earth.
Kruger strikes at last.
Now he's where we've wanted him for ten years past.
Watch us while we do him up. Progress rules to-day.
Boers, get a move on you! Don't block the way!
Rude men, gross men, men averse to soap.
Bigots all, and ignorant; far too dull to cope
Equally with Englishmen trained to modern skill.
Now's our chance to show them how—ay, and so we will!
What's the news from Africa? Kimberley's shut in,
And Mafeking and Ladysmith. Still we're sure to win!
But dining at Pretoria this coming Christmas Day
Depends, it seems, in some degree, on what Joubert may say.
Rude men, gross men, obstinate as mules;
Fighters with a most uncivil disregard of rules;
Churlish farmers, ready though, when summons comes, to die,
To prove their right to dwell in dirt, each freeman in his sty.
What's the news from Africa? Things are getting hot.
Methuen's crazy! Wauchope's killed! Gatacre's gone to pot!
They've captured regiments of hussars. At every rifle crack
A smokeless message speeds to drape a British home in black.
Help! help! help! there, and send it mighty quick!
Sort your generals, you at home, and let us have the pick!
Rush in more of everything! God help us if we lose!
We're up against as grim a crowd as ever stood in shoes.
Up rose Britain's might at that. Up rose Britain's hair.
Where are Bobs and Kitchener? Quick! They're wanted there!
Off, you ornamental chaps! Now show what you're for!
Sixty thousand not enough? Send twice as many more!
Rude men, gross men! Heavens! how they shoot!
Gentle with our wounded, too; not so wholly brute
As not to be the masters of the game of war they play,
And play it in a singularly self-respectful way!
What's the news from Africa? All the world inquires;
Canada—her sons are there—stands listening at the wires.
Lo, Australia anxious, too! and India just as much,
While British drums beat round the world defiance to the Dutch.
Defiance to the laggard Dutch, too far behind the time
To understand the ever-modern estimate of crime,
Which deems it sin in Heaven's sight and folly before man
To question right of Might to grab whosever land it can.
What's the news from Africa? The tide begins to turn.
Brains at last make crushing numbers harvest what they earn.
Rhodes is out of Kimberley; Ladysmith's relieved.
So is London. Roberts did it. Chamberlain's reprieved.
Cronje's at St. Helena; Kruger's in the field
—Tough old boy—and still the cry is, “Boers never yield!”
Yield they must, though; odds too great; yield and pay the bill.
So many pounds for so much blood that England had to spill!
Boers? How about them now? Dirty? Rude? Uncouth?
More like models, nowadays, for hopeful British youth.
Teachers of their pedagogues. Training men to try
To prod the erring gently lest he smite them on the eye.
Softly with them, Britons now! Softly as may be!
You know them better than you did; you do, and so do we.
Men who fight as Boers fight—surely they are worth
Freedom, and a title clear to some poor roods of earth.
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