Salmon Van As
On a night just as the moon is rising
a British officer comes by horse with a white flag
and the rifle barrels of the Boers follow him,
as they are on guard at the front post.
Evening after evening he comes
and sometimes rides past in a cloud of dust
where he is spying on their positions
and tries to lead them astray with his chattering.
With words that by now they know:
“No nation will win against us.
Surrender tonight,
as you have already lost the war.”
On a hillock Salmon van As is at the front post
and something creaks below him in the trees and bushes
where he is standing with his Mauser rifle at the ready
and he knows of the atrocities of this Englishman
where with a thunder clap he shoots at him.
Some black men run back to the British camp
to tell the story of the shot,
where a red headed major stamps his feet in anger
and swears to God to take revenge.
Convinced of his own innocence Salmon van As
stays openly on his own farm,
where he goes on with his life in Heidelberg
and just after the peace of Vereniging,
when it fits the British,
they insist on his arrest.
He is brought before a military court
where he is not given any chance to defend himself,
as probably he would have succeeded in his own defence
and the British officer says his final say.
At daylight the Lee Metford rifles of the British soldiers fire
and like Gideon Scheepers there’s a Boer that falls,
a Boer citizen is murdered by the British
and in the cliff a thorn tree on his grave still tells that story.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Gideon Scheepers
There’s a Boer commandant
that proofs himself at Magersfontein
and help to beat the British there
and at Paardeberg on horseback,
rides right through them
and they cannot touch him.
When his commando
enters the Cape Colony
rail tracts are blown away
and British trains stand and wait
and there are many Cape Boers
that joins him
to fight against
the overwhelming British might.
The British give guns
to the black population
and send them to farmsteads
to murder women and children
and to rape
and to Gideon Scheepers it’s more than enough
and it hits him like a hammer blow
and every black man
that his commando catches carrying a firearm
is hanged.
Then it happens
that the British find Gideon Scheepers
lying ill in the field
and they execute him
and somewhere in the field
he is pushed into an unmarked grave
and even today
nobody knows where
Gideon Scheepers lies.
[References: The rank of Commandant is equivalent to that of Lieutenant-Colonel. The heroic story of Gideon Scheepers during the second Anglo-Boer war.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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In front of a firing squad
Japie almost burns himself
when he mess some coffee
and it’s still dark,
when at four o’clock one morning
British soldiers arrive
at the Greyling’s farm.
There’s an Afrikaner farm boy
standing against the wall
of a farm house
and English Captain Jack Seeley,
wants to know to where
his father’s Boer commando is going?
Japie Greyling refuses
to say anything about it
and Jack Seeley
order his men,
to aim at an Afrikaner boy.
Six British Martini Henri rifles
are pointed at a ten year old child
and he hears gunlock after gunlock
closing behind a bullet.
I ask you a last time
says the relentless Englishman
and a Boer boy
looks into death,
but still there’s nothing
that he lets out about his people
The British Captain keeps
walking nervously up and down
and the blue eyes
of a Boer boy,
cuts right through him
and the child says
let death then come,
but talk I wont.
All the British soldiers
are astounded by the courage
that comes from an Afrikaner child
and on command,
the rifles are lowered
before they ride away
and Japie Greyling
is left alive.
[References: Historic heroic story of Japie (Jacobus Johannes Cornelis) Greyling during the second Anglo-Boer war. The poem “Japie Greyling” by J.F.E Celliers. The book “Fear and Be Slain” by Jack Seeley.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A brave Field Cornet
From a hillock
two Boer commandoes
ride into an English camp
and a few of the British are shot,
a lot are caught
and most flee away.
In the direction of the Tuli river
the enemy are followed in haste
where they join comrades
driving a ox wagon
and the Boers are marksmen
and the English flee again
to find shelter in a farmhouse.
The house is shot to pieces
and for the third time on one day
the British flee again
and the next day,
the Boer commando captures nine wagons
with food and ammunition.
The day following Boer scouts
find an abandoned enemy camp
with burned out fires,
tents, horses and mules
and see a big cloud of dust
coming along in their direction.
There’s a Field Cornet
that does not ride away,
while two Boer commandos
escapes to safety.
At dusk Jacobus Potgieter
finds more men with a canon
set on a hillock
and with just more than twenty men,
he prepares
to give resistance to a huge enemy force.
The darker the night gets,
the nearer the cloud of dust comes
and Jacobus Potgieter and his men
are ready to shoot killing shots
and to let no Englishmen past them
and there’s a rambling sound,
but no enemy appear
and they are invaded
by a swarm of locusts.
[Reference: The “JJ Potgieter manuscript.” Second Anglo-Boer war. Boer commando= A group of Boer farmers in a citizen force militia under a Commandant (Lieutenant-Colonel) .]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The battle of Majuba Hill
With Major General Sir George Pomeroy in command
the Hussars, Gordon Highlanders,60th rifles
and a contingent of the naval brigade,
climbed Majuba hill
and was in battle forced down
the back again.
At dawn the British army
had taken the steep hill
and the Boer commando’s camp
laid on the plain below
and Major General Sir George Pomeroy,
was just a bit to comfortable
with their position on the summit
and the Boers were at their mercy,
or so they thought.
The Boers saw British soldiers
on top of Majuba hill
waving the Union Jack
and under cover,
they started to climb
the steep slopes.
On a February late summer day
the Boer commando
blended with their farming clothes
into the field, into the hill.
Every rock and crevice,
every redoubt and counterscarp
was a natural hiding place
to lay siege on that Majuba hill.
The British infantry wore red jackets
and blue trousers
and white pith helmets on their heads
and was a fine example,
of an invading Super power’s military might.
They thought what damage could a
citizen force militia in jackets,
trousers and slouch hats
with hunting rifles do,
against a empire’s
well trained soldiers?
What they did forget,
was they were facing
a nation of exceptional men
who fought savage men and cruel beasts
to make a living
and every one a great marksman.
In integrity the Boers prayed
and believing in God,
climbed that hill
in broad daylight.
George Pomeroy was dead
shot thought the head
and accurate shots rang out
while fire and movement tactics
turned that battlefield into a slaughtering
and British soldiers died one by one
and tried to flee
down the rear slope.
All of Great Britain’s victories before
never prepared that empire,
for the treatment that it got
from a bunch of hard-bitten farmers
that believed in the power of God
and brandished modern rifles.
[Reference: The battle of Majuba Hill. Battle between the Transvaal (ZAR) republic and Great Britain on 27 February 1881 in South Africa, which won the first Anglo-Boer war. “Three Boer groups were led by Field Cornet Stephanus Roos, Commandant D.J.K. Malan and Commandant Joachim Ferreira against Major General George Pomeroy.” It consisted of about 400-500 Boer farmers in a citizen force militia against 405 British infantry. On the side of the Boers 1 was dead and 5 wounded and of the British 92 were dead (including their General) ,134 wounded and 59 captured.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Commandant Gideon Scheepers
They tried to send him to hell,
as if he was one of them,
a traitor, a rebel.
The British killed a captured ill man,
that they came across in the veldt
without decency, or any military law being honoured.
They shot a Boer commandant through the heart
and without a funeral note,
they hurried, to get him buried.
A brave man devoted
to his country, to his God,
whose burial place was not noted.
Turning sod after sod
with spades, they dumped him
in a unmarked grave
in the dead of night
without using light
they threw ground upon his chest,
laid him to rest without any honour
and left him alone
without a marking stone.
[References: The rank of Commandant is equivalent to that of Lieutenant Colonel. The heroic story of Gideon Scheepers during the second Anglo-Boer war, who was captured while being ill in the veldt as a normal combatant, but treated like a rebel and shot by the British, who buried him in a unmarked hole in the ground.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Boer Wars
The two wars are those Boer Wars,
Bent on mastery of a continent too southern.
There was Majuba Hill, a defeat of number one,
A British nation, a link can be found of profundity.
‘Native Affairs’ are won by the Boers
In their peace, in their very peace.
Victory was peace, aliens were among them,
They brushed with death, brushed with life
And sworn secrecy, only it is known.
They brought hatred to the world with wars,
Raiding each other and weaving a silent web.
Isolated they had no chance, the British were defeated!
poem by Naveed Akram
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Gideon Scheepers (Terzanelle)
To form a cairn, I write these words about a remarkable man,
commandant Gideon Scheepers, executed in gross neglect
who was seen by the British as a rebel and partisan
and they treated him without any decency or respect
when in the veldt they captured an ill man as a prisoner of war.
Commandant Gideon Scheepers, executed in gross neglect
proofed himself at the battle of Magersfontein before
gathering more men, blowing away train tracks,
when in the veldt they captured an ill man as a prisoner of war
who acted against armed blacks
who stopped them from pillaging farms, raping, killing and looting,
gathering more men, blowing away train tracks,
the British executed him, with a firing squad shooting
a brave man, who acted fearless
who stopped them from pillaging farms, raping, killing and looting
and they buried him in an unmarked grave, rather careless.
To form a cairn I write these words about a remarkable man,
a brave man, who acted fearless
who was seen by the British as a rebel and partisan.
[References: The rank of Commandant is equivalent to that of Lieutenant Colonel. The heroic story of Gideon Scheepers during the second Anglo-Boer war, who was captured while being ill in the veldt as a normal combatant, but treated like a rebel and shot by the British, who buried him in a unmarked hole in the ground.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Easter Rising
eiri amach na casca
(the Easter rising)
The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.
They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.
Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.
Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.
Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..
Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.
The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..
They gave up to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.
The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire
From the graves of these patriot men
Was an Irish nation grown.
Their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The British descended
The British descended
on the Transvaal and Orange Free State
from their island
on the other side of the sea
and in thousands
they came to ruin the land.
The British descended
on the Transvaal and Orange Free State
and from the sea they came
and an entire empire
send its soldiers to destroy,
to pillage and scorch the earth,
to rape, and imprison
the women and children
of the Afrikaner nation.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war,
with Christiaan De Wet, Cronje
and De La Rey
and they fought hard pressed,
to drive the British
and soldiers from all her colonies away.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war
and landed in prisoner of war camps in St. Helena
and although the second Anglo-Boer war was lost
and the Afrikaner nation paid the highest cost
in the destruction of the land,
the death of men
and the murder of innocent women and children,
a time came
that once more we were free.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war,
but one was from and with the enemy
and a highlander was he
and a more decent man
is still hard to find
and one that hated the English
for the dreadfull things that they did,
at times I see the restored Martini Henri rifles
taken from the British
during that bitter war
and the legacy and great spirit,
of my great grandfathers
still stays with me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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General Christiaan De Wet At Doornberg
(after David Naude)
In the dust lay de Wet's son;
he prayed to God, further did not say a word,
traitors came under a white flag,
spied for the British before the battle;
it was very sad to see
while a brave man served his country.
On his hands was his own son's blood
but he still gave courage to his men
causing the British and traitors to loose,
driving them back over the Zant River
winning more fame in the world's eyes
while a brave man served his country.
The British had fled past Winburg
to avoid general de Wet's commando,
some of the traitors were very scared
when the Boer commando captured them;
in de Wet's eyes God was still providing,
while a brave man served his country.
[Reference: 'Die slag van Doornberg' ('The battle at Doornberg' by David Naude.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The battle of Isandhlwana
Shaded by a wild fig tree
where the Tugela river enters the ocean
representatives of British queen Victoria
demanded that the Zulus give up
their independence.
The Zulu king Cetshwayo
would never again send his impi
into battle against the Boer farmers,
but the British his impi would spear
and bash to death
and he ordered
his general Nishingwayo KaMahole Khoza
to halt the British invaders.
The Zulu commander remembered the battle
at Blood River well
where four hundred and seventy
Boer farmers fought
from behind their wagons
which they had drawn against each other
to form a almost impenetrable laagered fort
where only three Boer farmers were injured,
using flint lock rifles
three thousand of his warriors were killed,
and thousands more injured
and he knew that the Zulu faced there
an enemy trained through several generations
waging war against fierce men and cruel beasts
in harsh circumstances
making them marksmen and exceptional horsemen
believing in a almighty God
with whom they made a covenant
while asking for His help
and some warriors reported
spirits aiding the Boer fighters there,
but maybe that was as superstitions go.
These British soldiers
wore red and white costumes
as if going to a festival,
didn’t look rugged at all
and even under the fig tree
they were red from sunburn
and although they probably
prayed to the same god
as the Boer farmers
his translators told him
that they didn’t look so devoted
and talked about a empire
and the power of their new guns
having come for a adventure
and he decided to give them one.
Nishingwayo looked
the British through thoroughly
saw Lord Chelmsford moving
his men over the Buffalo river
to Isandhlwana Hill
where the country deceivingly looked
open and stretched out
and at the foot of the hill
the British set up their camp.
Very cleverly the Zulu commander
sneaked his impi armed with assegais
and clubs,
carrying leather shields
into the narrow valley
running up to the hill
and then he send
a small force
to draw the British out
of their camp
to follow it in vain.
The witchdoctors warned
the Zulu commander
against a attack,
but a scouting patrol of the British
by chance encountered
the front Zulu position.
Ignoring his spiritual advisors
Nishingwayo got his impi
into war formation
forming up like a storming Buffalo bull
into a chest and two horns
on the confused British camp.
Lord Chelmsford and his men believed
that the battle formation
of the square
could withstand any attack,
with their Martini-Henri rifles
but at Isandhlwana that square broke,
shattered under attack
from thousands of Zulus
who with shining spears and clubs
rushed in like a huge thunderbolt
screaming their ear splitting battle cries:
Ngathi impi and Abatagati
sounding like thunder
from thousands of voices
and swarm upon swarm
of spears filled the sky
making the sun disappear
and the Zulu war formation
annihilated the British
closing in
like a tremendous crashing wave
sweeping all resistance away.
Stabbing, slicing, bashing
that great impi went right through
the British defenders
sparing none at Isandlwana
and marched away
heavy laden with booty
with some warriors
helping the wounded along
still singing their battle songs
and only two regiments
under Dabulamanzi pursued
the retreating survivors
to Rorke’s drift mission station
which was only
but a side show
of that great battle
which the British lost.
[References: Impi= Zulu army. Assegai = spear. At Isandlwana 1329 British soldiers were killed and eleven soldiers were honoured as heroes at Rorke’s Drift with Victoria Crosses. Ngathi impi=> “Because of us, war” Abatagati=> “Kill the magicians.” The Great Boer War by Arthur Conan Doyle (comments on the excellence as marksmen, horsemen and on the dedication of the Boer farmers as to patriotism and religion.) The word Boer is both Dutch and Afrikaans for farmer.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Blockhouses had been erected right over the country
Blockhouses had been erected right over the country,
farms had been entered and burnt to the ground,
Livestock and animals had been slaughtered
and women and children were rounded up
and interned into death camps.
Young boys
were set against white walls
and firing squads
was set against them
and a super power
clenched its fist around this country
and stood gigantic
against every Boer farmer.
l’Envoi
That time will be forever black
in history
with the misdeeds of the British
that is well known
and the ruination of a nation, arousing from it
where women and children perished as targets
at the commands of Horatio Herbert Kitchener.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather(Gert Strydom) grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Great Three
At one time when the country was ruled by creul british
there came the Tremendous three
who were on mission to make our country free
they distributed templates
to stop their mission
the british called simon commission
they knew it was test of the best
against simon they made protest
but it proved them costly
as their leader was beaten by sticks
furious by their behaviour
it was time to teach british lesson
The officer guilty deserved the punishment
it was justice
After some days
once again the british at its creulity
for their pleasure
they were going with train of treasure
the Revolutionaries decide to do justice
they steal the train
The british pass bill
which made sure that the farmers will not get justice
it was test of best
as they protest
in the Assembly they throw bomb
the british catch the tremendous three
the punishment they get is hanged till death
but fear is stranger to them
as they happily hang themselves
and they still say
long live the revolution
vande mataram
I proud to be indian
poem by Rohan Bendre
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The Anglo Boer war
When that wimp of a Englishman
called Cecil John Rhodes
decided that he wanted gold,
that the diamonds in his pockets
was not enough
he wanted to see that British Union Jack flutter,
over the whole of Southern Africa
to his queen he went
to enchant her patriotic soul
to claim the Orange Free State
and Transvaal Republics as British territories
to sent three thousand
Christian farmers to their deaths,
to burn farmsteads down to the ground,
to throw salt in the lands,
to slaughter every animal there,
to murder twenty thousand women
and children
in concentration camps
and to loose twenty eight thousand
of the queen’s own as killed, as dead
shot through the heart, shot through the head.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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From pools of blood
From pools of blood bushes, trees
and aloes grow in the veldt
where British soldiers
fired on my countrymen
and some bayoneted them.
Concentration camps where twenty thousand
women and children died without dignity
at the hand of foreigners,
who claimed to be fellow Christians
are now covered with grass
and that past are being blotted out
as if the misery, the indignity,
the mass murder
never happened
and great Queen Victoria
is still dignified
and still I hold Great Britain responsible
for the murder of my great grand mother,
for the destruction
of my great grand father’s farm,
for the seizure
of my other great grand father’s property,
for sending him to St. Helena
as a prisoner of war,
for invading my country
for making profit from the minerals
and the quarter Scotsman in me
together with my three quarters Afrikaner parts
forever wants to be free
from the enslavement
which that foreign nation brought.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather(Gert Strydom) grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Canadian born
We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God;
We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood:
And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,
But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;
And all have one credential that entitles us to brag--
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame,
But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial name;
And every man's a millionaire if only he can brag
That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.
No title and no coronet is half so proudly worn
As that which we inherited as men Canadian born.
We count no man so noble as the one who makes the brag
That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.
The Dutch may have their Holland, the Spaniard have his Spain,
The Yankee to the south of us must south of us remain;
For not a man dare lift a hand against the men who brag
That they were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Indian Mutiniy
British infants who were nobly born
Were from their bleeding mother's bosom torn
And with the bayonet dashed upon the street
There left to lie for native dogs to eat.
But the British Lion he soon o'erthrew
Both the high and the low Hindoo ;
Now they respect the Christian laws
For fear of British Lion's paws.
poem by James McIntyre
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The Capture of Havana
'Twas in the year 1762 that France and Spain
Resolved, allied together, to crush Britain;
But the British Army sailed from England in May,
And arrived off Havana without any delay.
And the British Army resolved to operate on land,
And the appearance of the British troops were really grand;
And by the Earl of Albemarle the British troops were commanded,
All eager for to fight as soon as they were landed.
Arduous and trying was the work the British had to do,
Yet with a hearty goodwill they to it flew;
While the tropical sun on them blazed down,
But the poor soldiers wrought hard and didn't frown.
The bombardment was opened on the 30th of June,
And from the British battleships a fierce cannonade did boom;
And continued from six in the morning till two o'clock in the afternoon,
And with grief the French and Spaniards sullenly did gloom.
And by the 26th of July the guns of Fort Moro were destroyed,
And the French and Spaniards were greatly annoyed;
Because the British troops entered the Fort without dismay,
And drove them from it at the bayonet charge without delay.
But for the safety of the city the Governor organised a night attack,
Thinking to repulse the British and drive them back;
And with fifteen hundred militia he did the British attack,
But the British trench guards soon drove them back.
Then the Spandiards were charged and driven down the hill,
At the point of the bayonet sore against their will;
And they rushed to their boats, the only refuge they could find,
Leaving a trail of dead and wounded behind.
Then Lieutenant Forbes, at the head of his men,
Swept round the ramparts driving all before them;
And with levelled bayonets they drove them to and fro,
Then the British flag was hoisted over the bastions of Moro.
Then the Governor of the castle fell fighting sword in hand,
While rallying his men around the flagstaff the scene was grand;
And the Spaniards fought hard to save their ships of war,
But the British destroyed their ships and scattered them afar.
And every man in the Moro Fort was bayonet or shot,
Which in Spanish history will never be forgot;
And on the 10th of August Lord Albemarle sent a flag of truce,
And summoned the Governor to surrender, but he seemed to refuse.
Then from the batteries the British opened a terrific fire,
And the Spaniards from their guns were forced to retire,
Because no longer could they the city defend;
Then the firing ceased and hostilities were at an end.
Then the city of Havana surrendered unconditionally,
And terms were settled, and the harbour, forts, and city,
With a district of one hundred miles to the westward,
And loads of gold and silver were the British troops' reward.
And all other valuable property was brought to London,
The spoils that the British Army had won;
And it was conveyed in grand procession to the Tower of London,
And the Londoners applauded the British for the honours they had won.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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If you do a story about a British journalist rescuing a child from Sarajevo, then Sarajevo just becomes an exotic location, and the story's about this British journalist.
quote by Michael Winterbottom
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kohinoor...unlucky stone
I am black unshaped stone
Simple but famous for quality alone
When cut to size may assume name of diamond
All envy keen interest and passion found
Many may inherit fortune with precious stone
Prosperity may return and poverty gone
It may shadow bad luck and misfortune
Life may go astray with rhythm out of tune
Such is story of diamond “Kohinoor” in possession
Previously found with princely states with obsession
Sikhs got it with downfall and recession
British too lost empire with no concession
Where ever it traveled misfortune followed
Uprooting of states and downfall allowed
Humiliation and shame had to be swallowed
Revenge, hate and reprisal got to be vowed
“Kohinoor” came to be known as unlucky treasure
Cut into size was mounting pressure
British obliged and cut into pieces assured
Not to pass to any one promise reassured
British too were reduced to small empire
Golden days passed with good fame to expire
Many attempted it to claim and acquire
Legal bindings and claims too required
History may not repeat with its curse and fall out
Kohinoor may stay in vault and not invite rout
World may know nothing what it is all about
It is tale of destruction and misfortune spell out
Still it adores British crown
No significance but only in noun
Many countries claim and eyes frown
British too unwilling and claimdisown
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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