The mountain pass
There are bullets that draw sparking lines
on the rocks next to him
and in the mountain pass,
Jan Pieterse and ten men
stand to keep
the English back.
The smoke of shots being fired
hangs like fog around him
and gunlock after gunlock,
are cocked time after time
and Jan Pieterse and his men
shoot carefully while the morning’s dusk appears.
At the bottom a Boer commando
goes through the river’s ford
and there are horse hoofs resounding
and a liddite bomb,
explodes like a flaming star
in the grey air
before the sun rises.
The dust clears
and the commando rides away
and it’s just Jan Pieterse and one comrade,
that is still alive
and they give their horses full reigns.
It’s only Jan Pieterse that gets away
and he turns his horse around,
chase back into the bullets
and liddite bombs
to get his mate.
With his wounded comrade
hanging over the front of his saddle
Jan Pieterse and each Englishmen
experience the first red rays of the sun
and his horse walks slowly on,
as if no bullet can touch him there
and nothing can kill a Boer hero.
The English stop shooting
and cheer about the bravery
of a enemy Boer,
that disappears with rifle in his hand
over the horizon.
[References: The historic heroic story of Jan Pieterse during the second Anglo-Boer war. The poem “Rit-rympie” by Toon van den Heever.]
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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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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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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Ballade Of The Headless Man
(after A.G. Visser)
On a distant road through some hillocks
a young Boer greets his pretty wife
and the robust man
holds her against him for a moment.
Choir:
In the sky there’s a moon
hanging sickle,
when I pass the bottom of a cliff
where I notice a man on his horse biting at its bridle.
Later when the weather gets cloudy
and bolts of blue lightning fall like shots about me
something happens that can take away a brave man’s courage
before the first drops of rain come down like gunshots.
When the hoofs of a horse thunder past
while a church bell rings of midnight in the distance
and nobody still walks around in the streets,
when the doors of most of the houses are locked,
there’s something unearthly
that stands straight up in the stirrups.
Just a glace when another thunderbolt crashes down
is so frightening that I almost loose my faith
when I look at the horse and its rider
and that thunder crashes sinister
while a headless man leans forward
as he passes at a hell of a speed
while he fires his rifle that his fingers is clinging onto
and at a old dilapidated ruin near to me
there’s a women in white spectre form
whose shrill voice cuts through the night,
screaming at the passing horseman:
“Can nothing stop you? Jan van der Meer? ”
[References: “Die ruiter van Skimmelperdpan” (The horseman of Skimmelperdpan by A.G. Visser and “At a pan at night” by Gert Strydom. This poem is based on a myth of a horseman that had been decapitated by canon fire during the second Anglo-Boer war.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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a Brave Boer boy
At Italeni the bushes come alive
and abound with a horde of Zulu’s,
of which the spears glitter
and some are at the peak
of a hillock
and others on the plane.
Blood and fat
are spread over their faces
and they are raging
and in a blood thirsty trance
and scream luring
and tipple with a ritteltit war dance
and clubs and shields,
are thrown into the air
while spears flash into the air.
In the cloudless blue sky
an eagle flies past screaming,
while Boer horsemen
are riding past with guns at the ready.
Father and son gallop next to each other
and the hoofs of the horses hang thundering,
as far as they go.
When the first Zulu’s are in striking distance
they fire at them
and the front warriors fall
and the rest turns about
and run into the bushes
and cliffs.
The commando breaks into smaller groups
and the fleeing Zulu impi
are followed
and Dirk rides side to side with his dad,
to help the Malan brothers
where they are trapped in the cliffs.
Suddenly a whole impi of murderously mad Zulu’s
are around them
and Piet Uys’s gun
is jammed
and he stops to fix it
and out of the air a spear falls
that penetrates him.
He tell his men to ride away
but Dirkie wants to stay
and he rides only a hundred steps away,
when he hears the war cry
of a lot of Zulu’s
that storm to his father.
Horse and son becomes one
and horse and son
burst galloping through the Zulu’s
and he shoots three down,
but he is murderously
speared from his horse
and one flintlock gun that breaks
cannot stop a horde of spears.
Father and son lies together
while a Zulu impi
dances with joy up and down
and in the bright blue sky
an Eagle screams while it passes
while death
embraces both men.
At times when a storm
rises over that long hillock
people hear horse hoofs
rushing over the earth
and a rifle that thunders,
while shadows
threaten and creep nearer
and the cry of an Eagle
sounds over the cliffs.
[Reference: The heroic story of Dirkie Uys. Impi=> a Zulu army.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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At a pan at night
In the dark night I hear horse hoofs
coming on thundering
and there are sparks
bursting from the quartz rocks.
In the sky
there’s a sickle moon
and the hairs
on my arms raise
while blue thunder
fall like shots around me
and I can smell fire and sulphur
on the wind.
For a moment
while a church bell
rings of midnight in the distance,
there’s a horse standing neighing
on its back feet.
Just one look
frightens me past being awake
when another lightning bolt
strikes down next to us
and a horse
with a man without head
passes me at great speed.
In the distance at a ruin
I see an old woman in white
with a shrill voice
cutting through the night.
“Can nothing stop you
Jan van der Meer? ”
[Reference: Die ruiter van skimmelperdpan by A.G. Visser. A legend from the second Anglo-Boer war.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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G.B.F.
Michael J. Willett, Paul Iacono, Sasha Pieterse, Evanna Lynch, Megan Mullally, Joanna Levesque, Andrea Bowen, Rebecca Gayheart
by George Northy from G.B.F (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wind bride
Without you my days are empty,
as if blown by the wind,
as if everything is swept away
like pieces of sand
into another place,
into another sombre world
where clouds knot through the air
melting into each other
and even some of the flowers
have the colours of your eyes
the winter grass
looks almost like your hair (only the colour differs)
and when you suddenly knock on the front door
standing there with rain and wind
stringing your hair
your arms shoot round my neck.
When I draw you in through the front door
your hair is swept against me,
while I am lost in your eyes,
and you are like Kokoschka’s wind bride.
[References: After the painting of Oskar Kokoschka. Windsbruid (Windy-bride) by H. J. Pieterse.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Inherent Vice
Reese Witherspoon, Jena Malone, Joaquin Phoenix, Sasha Pieterse, Josh Brolin, Katherine Waterston, Benicio Del Toro, Owen Wilson, Jillian Bell, Eric Roberts
by Paul Thomas Anderson from Inherent Vice (2014)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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All yor pearls
I can see your sympathy
You wear it like a string of fake pearls
Hanging on yor ears
As you pretend to listen
Draped around your neck
lying across ypur chest
as you pretend to care
And i can feel your anger
A raging fire of pure fury
It burns in your throat
as you spit firey sentences
It flicks in your eyes
And my soul is it's oxygen
poem by Chelsea Pieterse
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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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Blood River
They came in thousands
and their spear points glitter,
while the sun’s first rays
folds over the plain.
In the laager the men are drinking coffee
and are eating biltong and gather,
to read out of the bible
and to pray
and make a holy oath and covenant
with the Almighty God
to stop an overwhelming foe.
Out of the fog they rise
and the impi forms
in into all its battle lines,
like a storm sea
of which the waves gather ominous
to smash to pieces.
At every wagon there’s thorn branches
and four hundred and seventy Boer farmers
stand with their flintlock guns,
while the women and children
are melting lead at the fires
and they wait fearless on the enemy.
Their war cries hangs chilling
and Abatagati resounds
like thunder out thousands of mouths,
while the impi
storms in a killing frenzy to the wagons
and spears like a swarm of bees
fill the air
and descent deadly.
Shooting and loading
are repeated without end
and rifle barrels get red hot,
while thousands storm almost unstoppable
to spear and bash dead.
The Lord hears
and thousands are stopped
in their tracts
and before the dark night comes
the river’s water is blood
and on the battle field
three thousand Zulu warriors are dead
and Umhlela and Dambuza
and their whole impi,
is destroyed
and there is nobody
to return to Dingaan.
[References: Abatagati=> Kill the magicians. Dingaan=> Zulu king. Umhlela and Dambuza=>Captain’s of Dingaan.=> Dingaan’s generals. Impi=> Zulu army. At Isandlwana 1329 British soldiers died en and at Rorke's Drift eleven people were declared heroes and still they could not stop death against the Zulu impi. Only three Boer Voortrekkers were wounded at Blood River and they had faith in a Almighty God.]
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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Ballade of the guard commander
II
At dusk the sun sets fiery red
behind the bushes
where in beauty it brings tranquillity to the bush-veldt.
There are guards that I inspect as commander
where they stand neatly in a platoon
and I look at them one after the other and then right through them
walk to the guardroom on top of the shooting tower
and in the camp in the operational aria
every thing is in order, the guards are capable.
Early in the evening another officer
comes and plays a game of chess
and we drink icy glasses of beer
but when it gets later their is silence and peace
as if it’s just another evening in a thousand
and for some time I am still attentive to my duties
until the shadows draw out long against the walls,
my non commissioned officer starts to yawn
and I lie down on my camping bed
telling him to take charge, while I get tired
and sleep closes my eyes,
when an explosion wakes me.
II
Somewhere in the camp another bomb explodes,
I grab my firearm instruct the shooting tower to start firing
and fear is in me – that the general is going to come.
Tracers cut tracks through the night
torches are fired into the sky
and outside it’s bright as day
and we fire into the bushes
while I cannot determine where the enemy is
and do not really know where the firefight had started.
In the camp another bomb explodes,
I see a trooper throwing a hand grenade
and I am totally astounded
and fear is in me – that the general is going to come,
what am I going to say about what is happening here,
what am I going to report about the men below him?
It’s clear that it’s no enemy attack
and on the watchtower I lift my rifle
and when it resounds it’s an own man, an acquaintance
that I shoot down before he throws some more hand grenades
and everybody thinks that an enemy bullet pierces him,
while they shoot into the bushes and fire at will.
III
The morning is grey
and rainy when the day breaks
while there’s fear in me
where I have got to give account
about wounded men in three tents
and the death of one I carry with me,
while soldiers are on patrol in the bushes
and with a knob in my throat,
I know that no enemy is there and feel tired.
When I notice a helicopter it is clear that the general is coming
and the Lord knows that I had to shoot an own man,
but what will I show him of the preparedness of the camp?
With narrowed eyes
we wait on the parade ground
and eight of my men are wounded.
The dust rises from the turning blades
while the helicopter lands
and the blades turn slower.
Out of the cloud of dust three figures walk
with the general looking inexorable,
while my ears sing from the noise of the aircraft.
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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Jock
There's a soldier that's been doing of his share
In the fighting up and down and round about.
He's continually marching here and there,
And he's fighting, morning in and morning out.
The Boer, you see, he generally runs;
But sometimes, when he hides behind a rock,
And we can't make no impression with the guns,
Oh, then you'll hear the order, "Send for Jock!"
Yes -- it's Jock -- Scotch Jock.
He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.
For he's hairy and he's hard,
And his feet are by the yard,
And his face is like the face what's on a clock.
But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry --
"Send for Jock!"
The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance;
Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.
The Mounted Foot are hampered in advance
By holding of their helmets on their head.
And, when the Boer has dug himself a trench
And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock,
These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French --
They have to sit and wait and send for Jock!
Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks,
With their music that'd terrify an ox!
When the bullets kick the sand
You can hear the sharp command --
"Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!"
And the charge is like a hood
When they warmed the Highland blood
Of the Jocks!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Young Koekemoer (in reply to A. Brodrick)
Way back in the days
of the old Transvaal republic
in the Marico district lived a young farmer
called Hans Koekemoer, who was a great horseman
and a superb marksman
who crossed many rivers with his roan horse
and owned a Martini Henri rifle
and he was a great lover, skilled and sought by many ladies
and no other guy could compete with him
but one day an impi of Matabele warriors invaded the great Marico
burning down farmsteads, raiding cattle and killing farmers,
women and children
and the farmers were called up on commando
riding out on their horses with guns in their hands
and they fought bravely against that impi.
Hans by nature lived up to his name that meant cocky
firing from the saddle, breaking away from the commando
taking on a squad of the enemy
and he even followed them while they were fleeing
in front of him, trying to hunt the last one down
as he feared that they would capture or kill his beloved fiancée Sannie
and to the other farmers in the commando he was missing,
probably killed somewhere and while they rode back victoriously
their spirits were marred as they had lost the best young farmer.
Hans had been wounded and unconscious his horse
carried him to safety and a English missionary
came upon him removing a rusting assegai spear
and nursed him back to health
through a fever, bringing young Koekemoer back to life
over a period of some weeks
and just after his return to his farmstead
one of Hans Koekemoer’s cattle
was ill and he had to care for it through the night
and early the following morning while he was riding in the veldt
searching for a lost cow he saw a gathering of young men
galloping at speed in the distance
and first thought that it was a commando
that had gathered during the night and he rode up to them
and saw them passing a white banner
congratulating a bridegroom and bride and wishing them well
and they were riding at speed in front of a black coach
and Hans was curious about who had wedded so suddenly
and being cocky by nature forced the coach to a halt
and out stepped his girlfriend Sannie, with a Englishman,
a short wealthy shop owner
followed by Sannie’s father old dark Dirk Coetzee
an honourable man, a brave war veteran and a member of parliament
who wanted to know if young Hans had risen from the dead?
Young Hans replied that he wanted to talk to Sannie
the most beautiful girl in all of the Transvaal
who promised to wed him, swearing on the Bible
at the last communion service
and that he Hans could marry any of many a girl
and would instead drink a sip of brandy on her health.
Then lovely Sannie walked up to him
with a glass decorated with blue flowers in her hand
and he shouted: “to your health” before downing it
and Sannie was shaken but did not know why,
she looked into his eyes and forced a smile on her lips
and felt a spark going down into her hips
and he took her hand and looking into her eyes
kissed Sannie and her lips tasted of peppermint
from the shop owner’s kisses before his.
Sannie tied her skirts down before running hand-in-hand
with young Koekemoer
to where the roan horse was waiting on them
and the horse drew away galloping at full speed
while Sannie locked her arms around him
and in vain strong young Weppener, squinty Du Randt
and the rest of the riders gathered around the coach
jumped on their horses to catch up with them
and not one of them or her father
ever set eyes on Sannie again.
[Reference: Jong Koekemoer by A. Brodrick.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Voortrekker (in answer to Tony Harrison)
A track from a kraal
goes direct into the veldt
decked in blood
from the remains of cattle.
The sick Boer walks alone,
now abandoned of dog,
children, farm labourers
with a.303 rifle wavering in his hands.
Somewhere in dense green bushes
in front of him to the right
lions roar and at speed
one, two and three more
appear with tails flashing like whips.
The rifle is still wavering in his hands
but an expert eye finds the sight
with the trigger at his finger tip,
the exploding sound of bullet after bullet
are followed by a whack and some great roars
and the lions are no more
and like his fathers protected in God’s hand,
although outnumbered many times
by natives and wild beasts
stand a lonely believing man.
[Reference: Voortrekker by Tony Harrison.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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