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Meintjes Kopje

Meintjes Kopje! Meintjes Kopje!
Do the purple daisies grow
On your rugged slopes in spring-time
As they did in years ago,

When I walked with one who loved me,
In the days when love was young;
When our eyes held glinted laughter
And our sighs were songs unsung?

But the laughter fell and faded,
And the wonder-song is still,
And the track goes all untrodden
Past the pool and up the hill.

Meintjes Kopje! Meintjes Kopje!
Other years your flowers restore,
But my love who loved the daisies
Comes to gather them no more.

poem by Francis Ernley Walrond
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Two Kopjes

(Made Yeomanry towards End of Boer War)

Only two African kopjes,
Only the cart-tracks that wind
Empty and open between 'em,
Only the Transvaal behind;
Only an Aldershot column
Marching to conquer the land . . .
Only a sudden and solemn
Visit, unarmed, to the Rand.

Then scorn not the African kopje,
The kopje that smiles in the heat,
The wholly unoccupied kopje,
The home of Cornelius and Piet.
You can never be sure of your kopje,
But of this be you blooming well sure,
A kopje is always a kopje,
And a Boojer is always a Boer!

Only two African kopjes,
Only the vultures above,
Only baboons--at the bottom,
Only some buck on the move;
Only a Kensington draper
Only pretending to scout . . .
.Only bad news for the paper,
Only another knock-out.

Then mock not the African kopje,
And rub not your flank on its side,
The silent and simmering kopje,
The kopje beloved by the guide.
You can never be, etc.

Only two African kopjes,
Only the dust of their wheels,
Only a bolted commando,
Only our guns at their heels . . .
Only a little barb-wire,
Only a natural fort,
Only "by sections retire,"
Only "regret to report! "

Then mock not the .African kopje,
Especially when it is twins,
One sharp and one table-topped kopje
For that's where the trouble begins.
You never can be, etc.

Only two African kopjes
Baited the same as before--
Only we've had it so often,
Only we're taking no more . . .
Only a wave to our troopers,
Only our flanks swinging past,
Only a dozen voorloopers,.
Only we've learned it at last!

Then mock not the African kopje,
But take off your hat to the same,
The patient, impartial old kopje,
The kopje that taught us the game!
For all that we knew in the Columns,
And all they've forgot on the Staff,
We learned at the Fight o' Two Kopjes,
Which lasted two years an' a half.

0 mock not the African kopje,
Not even when peace has been signed--
The kopje that isn't a kopje--
The kopje that copies its kind.
You can never be sure of your kopje,
But of this be you blooming well sure,
That a kopje is always a kopje,
And a Boojer is always a Boer!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Field Of Yellow Daisies

We met in a field of yellow daisies
Wild and young and free
And she picked a bouquet for me
She loved me...she loved me not
The daisies didn't lie
They knew better than I...she'd go away..yeah
But they didn't say why
Have you ever been in a field of yellow daisies
Where the air is warm, pure and sweet
Just as if the world is at your feet
She loved me...she loved me not
The daisies didn't lie
They knew better than I
She'd go away.....yeah
But they didn't say why
I may fail like petals from a daisy
But for her love I'll always yearn
Each year when yellow daisies return
She loved me...she loved me not
The daisies didn't lie
They knew better than I
She'd go away.....yeahhhh
But they didn't say why
They didn't say why
They didn't say why
They didn't say why
They didn't say why
They didn't say why
They didn't say why.........

song performed by by Tom Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Late autumn

The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines

while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown

and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home

stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Dublin Fusilier

Here's to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté!
an' slainté galore.
You 're a dacint ould man, begorra; never
mind if you are a Boer.
So with heart an' a half ma boucahl, we 'll
drink to your health to-night
For yourself an' your farmer sojers gave us a
damn good fight.

I was dramin' of Kitty Farrell, away in the
Gap o' Dunloe,
When the song of the bugle woke me, ringin'
across Glencoe;
An' once in a while a bullet came pattherin'
from above,
That tould us the big brown fellows were send-
in' us down their love.

'Twas a kind of an invitation, an' written in
such a han'
That a Chinaman could n't refuse it- not to
spake of an Irishman.
So the pickets sent back an answer. 'We're
comin' with right good will,'
Along what they call the kopje, tho' to me it
looked more like a hill.

'Fall in on the left,' sez the captain, 'my
men of the Fusiliers;
You 'll see a great fight this morning -like
you have n't beheld for years.'
'Faith, captain dear,' sez the sergeant, 'you
can bet your Majuba sword
If the Dutch is as willin' as we are, you never
spoke truer word.'

So we scrambled among the bushes, the bowl-
ders an' rocks an' all,
Like the gauger's men still-huntin' on the
mountains of Donegal;
We doubled an' turned an' twisted the same
as a hunted hare,
While the big guns peppered each other over
us in the air.

Like steam from the divil's kettle the kopje
was bilin' hot,
For the breeze of the Dutchman's bullets was
the only breeze we got;
An' many a fine boy stumbled, many a brave
lad died,
When the Dutchman's message caught him
there on the mountainside.

Little Nelly O'Brien, God help her! over
there at ould Ballybay,
Will wait for a transvaal letter till her face an'
her hair is grey,
For I seen young Crohoore on a stretcher, an'
I knew the poor boy was gone
When I spoke to the ambulance doctor,an' he
nodded an' then passed on.

'Steady there!' cried the captain, 'we must
halt for a moment here,'
An' he spoke like a man in trainin' , full winded
an' strong an' clear.
So we threw ourselves down on the kopje,
weary an' tired as death,
Waitin' the captain 's orders, waitin' to get a
breath.

It 's strange all the humours an' fancies that
comes to a man like me;
But the smoke of the battle risin' took me
across the sea-
It 's the mist of Benbo I 'm seein'; an' the
rock that we 'll capture soon
Is the rock where I shot the eagle, when I was
a small gosson.

I close my eyes for a minute, an' hear my poor
mother say,
'Patrick, avick, my darlin', you 're surely not
goin' away
To join the red-coated sojers?'- but the
blood in me was strong-
If your sire was a Connaught Ranger, sure
where would his son belong?

Hark! whisht! do you hear the music comin'
up from the camp below?
An odd note or two when the Maxims take
breath for a second or so,
Liftin' itself on somehow, stealin' its way up
here,
Knowin' there 's waitin' to hear it, many an
Irish ear.

Augh! Garryowen! you 're the jewel! an' we
charged on the Dutchman's guns,
An' covered the bloody kopje, like a Galway
greyhound runs,
At the top of the hill they met us, with faces
all set and grim;
But they could n't take the bayonet - that 's
the trouble with most of thim.

So of course, they 'll be praisin' the Royals
an' men of the Fusiliers,
An' the newspapers help to dry up the widows
an' orphans' tears,
An' they 'll write a new name on the colors-
that is, if there 's room for more
An' we 'll follow them thro' the battle, the same
as we 've done before.

But here 's to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté! an'
slainté galore.
After all, you 're a dacint Christian, never
mind if you are a Boer.
So with heart an' a half, ma boucahl, we 'll
drink to your health to-night,
For yourself an' your brown-faced Dutchmen
gave us a damn good fight.

poem by William Henry Drummond
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To The Enemy 47th FAPLA / Cuban Brigade (Fay Slimm form / decanelle)

In the veldt they put Cuban soldiers to rest
simply as found
with hillocks unfamiliar under a foreign sky
at each mound,
all kinds of strange animals, birds and pest
came looking around,
after the guns, the earth and grass did cry
in a weeping sound
with lions, hyenas, jackals on a kopje crest,
on stony ground.

poem by Gert Strydom
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I Have Always Loved You

Since the beginning of time
Since it started to rain
Since I heard you laugh
Since I felt your pain
I was too young, you were much younger
We were afraid of each other's hunger
I have always loved you
There's never been anyone else
I knew you before I knew myself
Oh my baby,
I have always loved you
Since we kissed the first time
Since we slept on the beach
You were too close for comfort
You were too far out of reach
You walked away,
I should have held you
Would you have stayed for me to tell you?
I have always loved you
There's never been anyone else
I knew you before I knew myself
Oh my baby,
I have always loved you
Years go by in a matter of days
And though we go separate ways
I never stop dreaming of you
I have always loved you
And when you call it makes me cry
We never made time for you and
I if I could live it all again
I'd never let it end,
I'd still be with you
Oh
God, I miss you
I have always loved you
There's never been anyone else
I knew you before
I knew myself
Oh my baby,
I have always loved you
Years go by in a matter of days
And though we go separate ways
I never stop dreaming of you
I have always loved you

song performed by by Enrique Iglesias
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dying Child

He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.

Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?

He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.

And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.

When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.

poem by John Clare
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The Fury of Flowers and Worms

Let the flowers make a journey
on Monday so that I can see
ten daisies in a blue vase
with perhaps one red ant
crawling to the gold center.
A bit of the field on my table,
close to the worms
who struggle blinding,
moving deep into their slime,
moving deep into God's abdomen,
moving like oil through water,
sliding through the good brown.
The daisies grow wild
like popcorn.
They are God's promise to the field.
How happy I am, daisies, to love you.
How happy you are to be loved
and found magical, like a secret
from the sluggish field.
If all the world picked daisies
wars would end, the common cold would stop,
unemployment would end, the monetary market
would hold steady and no money would float.
Listen world.
if you'd just take the time to pick
the white flowers, the penny heart,
all would be well.
They are so unexpected.
They are as good as salt.
If someone had brought them
to van Gogh's room daily
his ear would have stayed on.
I would like to think that no one would die anymore
if we all believed in daisies
but the worms know better, don't they?
They slide into the ear of a corpse
and listen to his great sigh.

poem by Anne Sexton
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Drummer Hodge

They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined -- just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around:
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.

Young Hodge the drummer never knew --
Fresh from his Wessex home --
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.

Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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As Long As You Are Near

The first time we met, I could see
That you and I were meant to be
Your eyes were so gentile, your smile so true
When you first held my hand, I just knew

Now the time has gone by through laughter and tears
Those days I shall cherish, for years upon years
Those memories we have, shall never fade
For those are the steps that we made

That was the past the future is near
I anxiously wait for what to appear
New homes, more laughter and children so dear
Everything will be wonderful as long has you are near

poem by Duke Perry Abrokwa
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As Long as you are near

The first time we meet,
I could see
That you and I were meant to be.
Your eyes were so gentle,
Your smile so true
When you first held my hand
I just knew.

Now the time has gone by,
Through laughter and tears
These days I shall cherish
For years upon years
Those memories we have
Shall never fade
For those are the steps
That we have made

That was the past
The future is near
I anxiously wait
For what will appear
New homes, more laughter
And children so dear
Everything will be wonderful
As long as you are near
-to anyone

poem by Courtney Noggle
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My Heart is Broken

Does anyone know that my heart is broken?
Perhaps no one really knows because of the laughter I show when I'm with them,
Nobody knows that my heart is hurting because of that person.
Those days in love it was the laughter that made me happy,
Waking up in the morning next to the person that I loved,
It was everything that I could wished for,
But the laughter faded when the person said it was over.

Years have passed by but the memories are still here,
And I don't think I could ever erase the person from my mind,
Those wonderful memories from my heart.
My heart is bleeding from the sad memories that were once happy,
I can laugh and laugh,
I can lie to myself and my friends,
But the tears from the laughter are the tears from the heartbreak.

Sometimes in the nights I hear myself laughing,
The laughter that echoes through the nights,
Through the lonely dark room,
I sometimes realize that not all of the echoing sounds are laughter,
But they are the tears and sadness coming from my heart.
How can I erase anything when the person's love was so beautiful?
How can I erase that person from my memory,
When I still love that person so much

poem by Heather Noble
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Daisies All Over My Body

let daisies rain on
me and let all the daisies
cover my face my body
let daisies crown my head
my hair, my nose, let there
be daisies everywhere
inside, outside me

i am in love.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Double Red Daisies

Double red daisies, they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.
In a big quarrelsome house like ours
They try it sometimes—but no,
I root them up because they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.

Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double red daisies for me,
The beautifulest flowers in the garden.

Double red daisy, that’s my mark:
I paint it in all my books!
It’s carved high up on the beech-tree bark,
How neat and lovely it looks!
So don’t forget that it’s my trade mark;
Don’t copy it in your books.

Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double red daisies for me,
The beautifulest flowers in the garden.

poem by Robert Graves
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Where once a hillock was

Where once a hillock was
I see bulldozers, trucks
and cranes
busy digging
deeper into the earth.

Houses and tower blocks
rise where once
plants had grown green
against that kopje
and from infinity,
were undisturbed
until man’s hand
stretched out.

No one will know
how great it looked before
buildings broke the serenity
and the rich started to dwell
in houses above the cliffs
and nothing will ever mend
the damage done.

Nature is dying,
pines away and disappears
while people
are erecting buildings almost everywhere.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Dead Drummer

I

They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
   Uncoffined--just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
   That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
   Each night above his mound.

II

Young Hodge the Drummer never knew -
   Fresh from his Wessex home -
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
   The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
   Strange stars amid the gloam.

III

Yet portion of that unknown plain
   Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
   Grow up a Southern tree.
And strange-eyed constellations reign
   His stars eternally.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Hold On Lynette The Horses Are Coming

Lynette was a beautiful baby
A true joy to her ma and pa
Free from oriningal sin she was
The whole family was in awe

She was loved loved loved
She was loved loved loved

One day she woke with fever
There was snow and wind and cold
The car was stuck at the end of the drive
To the doctor they could not go

She was loved loved loved
She was loved loved loved

Quick hook-up the team and the sleigh
By horse she'll surely make it
Hold on Lynette the horses are coming
Let's take some time to say how much we love you

She was loved loved loved
She was loved loved loved

Manes a flyin' tales a whippin'
The horse's plowed right through
Muscles a bulgin' and hides a sweating
Let's take some time to say how much we love you

She was loved loved loved
She was loved loved loved

Well by horse they surely made it
By horse they surely did
Just in time to tell them
There was nothing they could do for her

She was loved loved loved
She was loved loved loved
She was loved loved loved
She was loved loved loved

Well, for all those ma's and pa's out there
Who've lost their little ones
This songs not about a child dying
It's of a parent's love

One day on earth is just the same
as one year or fifty or a hundred
The only difference my friends
Is in the love you been giving and receiving

Love love love
Love love love
Love love love
Love love love

Hold on Lynette the horses are coming
Let's take some time to say how much we love you

poem by Atty Davis
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In Early Spring

O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise
In the young children's eyes.
But I have learnt the years, and know the yet
Leaf-folded violet.
Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell
The cuckoo's fitful bell.
I wander in a gray time that encloses
June and the wild hedge-roses.
A year's procession of the flowers doth pass
My feet, along the grass.
And all you sweet birds silent yet, I know
The notes that stir you so,
Your songs yet half devised in the dim dear
Beginnings of the year.
In these young days you meditate your part;
I have it all by heart.
I know the secrets of the seeds of flowers
Hidden and warm with showers,
And how, in kindling Spring, the cuckoo shall
Alter his interval.
But not a flower or song I ponder is
My own, but memory's.
I shall be silent in those days desired
Before a world inspired.
O dear brown birds, compose your old song-phrases,
Earth, thy familiar daisies.

The poet mused upon the dusky height,
Between two stars towards night,
His purpose in his heart. I watched, a space,
The meaning of his face:
There was the secret, fled from earth and skies,
Hid in his gray young eyes.
My heart and all the Summer wait his choice,
And wonder for his voice.
Who shall foretell his songs, and who aspire
But to divine his lyre?
Sweet earth, we know thy dimmest mysteries,
But he is lord of his.

poem by Alice Meynell
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Help Myself

A hungry boy
In a town of one hundred more
The food is out the door
Makes me want to help myself, help my-
A river red
Pouring from the side of his head
A bullet through the brain
Make him feel different today
Oh, colder grow the days
Oh, must faster pass the years by
til we die
A treasure not my own
I take it, tuck it, nobody will notice
Well that suits me well
Big house, big yard, help myself, help myself
You know, every once in a while
To help the helpless comes into style
Mercy, mercy mile
1-800-help-myself, help myself
Oh, colder grow the days
Oh, much fast pass the years by
Oh, colder grow the days
Oh, much faster pass the years by
til we die
Summers here were dancing in the daisies
Summers rain burns holes in the flowers
Dangerous hours
Dangerous hours
Dangerous hours
Every now and then
Tv preachers tell of heaven
Redemption for a penny a soul
1-800- help-yourself, help yourself
Help yourself, oh
Summers here, were swimming in the river
Summer rain, come down, come down, come down, come down yeah
Summers here, were dancing in the daisies
Summer rain burns holes in the flowers
Dangerous hours
Dangerous hours
Dangerous hours

song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eastern Transvaal

Against the edge of the kopje a homestead is standing
with a pretty garden in contrast to the red-brown dust,
a place of rest grounded on the expertise of the farmer,
displaying his handiwork.

When thunder falls above on the top of the hillock
he sits at ease with a pipe in his mouth,
at his feet his darling pedigree dog lies
and they smell the fragrance of the rain that is showering down

while the eyes of the farmer wanders over the hillock
where aloes, sugar bushes and wild plums grow in abundance
next to the dense cornfield that stretches green into the distance,

the blessings from God showers down everywhere
and everything that farmer owns multiplies
as if the hand of God covers his life mightily.

[After Elisabeth Eybers/Reference: Wes-Transvaal (Western Transvaal) by Elisabeth Eybers.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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