Just the model of a Dopper
Of the fierce old fighting sort.
With a shaggy bearded quota
On commando at his order,
He went off with Louis Botha
Trekking for the British border.
When Natal was first invaded
He was fighting night and day,
Then he scouted and he raided,
With De Wet and Delaney.
Till he had a brush with Plumer,
Got a bullet in his arm,
And returned in sullen humour
To the shelter of his farm.
Now it happened that the Devons,
Moving up in that direction,
Sent their Colour-Sergeant Evans
Foraging with half a section.
By a friendly Dutchman guided,
A Van Eloff or De Vilier,
They were promptly trapped and hided,
In a manner too familiar.
When the sudden scrap was ended,
And they sorted out the bag,
Sergeant Evans lay extended
Mauseritis in his leg.
So the Kaffirs bore him, cursing,
From the scene of his disaster,
And they left him to the nursing
Of the daughters of their master.
Now the second daughter, Sadie —
But the subject why pursue?
Wounded youth and tender lady,
Ancient tale but ever new.
On the stoep they spent the gloaming,
Watched the shadows on the veldt,
Or she led her cripple roaming
To the eucalyptus belt.
He would lie and play with Jacko,
The baboon from Bushman’s Kraal,
Smoked Magaliesberg tobacco
While she lisped to him in Taal.
Till he felt that he had rather
He had died amid the slaughter,
If the harshness of the father
Were not softened in the daughter.
So he asked an English question,
And she answered him in Dutch,
But her smile was a suggestion,
And he treated it as such.
Now among Rhenoster kopjes
Somewhat northward of the Vaal,
You may see four little chappies,
Three can walk and one can crawl.
And the blue of Transvaal heavens
Is reflected in their eyes,
Each a little William Evans,
Smaller model — pocket size.
Each a little Burgher Piet
Of the hardy Boer race,
Two great peoples seem to meet
In the tiny sunburned face.
And they often greatly wonder
Why old granddad and Papa,
Should have been so far asunder,
Till united by mamma.
And when asked, “Are you a Boer.
Or a little Englishman?”
Each will answer, short and sure,
“I am a South African.”
But the father answers, chaffing,
“Africans but British too.”
And the children echo, laughing,
“Half of mother — half of you.”
It may seem a crude example,
In an isolated case,
But the story is a sample
Of the welding of the race.
So from bloodshed and from sorrow,
From the pains of yesterday,
Comes the nation of to-morrow
Broadly based and built to stay.
Loyal spirits strong in union,
Joined by kindred faith and blood;
Brothers in the wide communion
Of our sea-girt brotherhood.
THE WANDERER
With acknowledgment to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch.
‘Twas in the shadowy gloaming
Of a cold and wet March day,
That a wanderer came roaming
From countries far away.
Scant raiment had he round him,
Nor purse, nor worldly gear,
Hungry and faint we found him,
And bade him welcome here.
His weary frame bent double,
His eyes were old and dim,
His face was writhed with trouble
Which none might share with him.
His speech was strange and broken,
And none could understand,
Such words as might be spoken
In some far distant land.
We guessed not whence he hailed from,
Nor knew what far-off quay
His roving bark had sailed from
Before he came to me.
But there he was, so slender,
So helpless and so pale,
That my wife’s heart grew tender
For one who seemed so frail.
She cried, “But you must bide here!
You shall no further roam.
Grow stronger by our side here,
Within our moorland home!”
She laid her best before him,
Homely and simple fare,
And to his couch she bore him
The raiment he should wear.
To mine he had been welcome,
My suit of russet brown,
But she had dressed our weary guest
In a loose and easy gown.
And long in peace he lay there,
Brooding and still and weak,
Smiling from day to day there
At thoughts he would not speak.
The months flowed on, but ever
Our guest would still remain,
Nor made the least endeavour
To leave our home again.
He heeded not for grammar,
Nor did we care to teach,
But soon he learned to stammer
Some words of English speech.
With these our guest would tell us
The things that he liked best,
And order and compel us
To follow his behest.
He ruled us without malice,
But as if he owned us all,
A sultan in his palace
With his servants at his call.
Those calls came fast and faster,
Our service still we gave,
Till I who had been master
Had grown to be his slave.
He claimed with grasping gestures
Each thing of price he saw,
Watches and rings and vestures,
His will the only law.
In vain had I commanded,
In vain I struggled still,
Servants and wife were banded
To do the stranger’s will.
And then in deep dejection
It came to me one day,
That my own wife’s affection
Had been beguiled away.
Our love had known no danger,
So certain had it been!
And now to think a stranger
Should dare to step between.
I saw him lie and harken
To the little songs she sung,
And when the shadows darken
I could hear his lisping tongue.
They would sit in chambers shady,
When the light was growing dim,
Ah, my fickle-hearted lady!
With your arm embracing him.
So, at last, lest he divide us,
I would put them to the test.
There was no one there beside us,
Save this interloping guest.
So I took my stand before them,
Very silent and erect,
My accusing glance passed o’er them,
Though with no observed effect.
But the lamp light shone upon her,
And I saw each tell-tale feature,
As I cried, “Now, on your honour,
Do or don’t you love the creature?”
But her answer seemed evasive,
It was “Ducky-doodle-doo!
If his mummy loves um babby,
Doesn’t daddums love um too?”
BENDY’S SERMON
[Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]
You didn’t know of Bendigo! Well, that
knocks me out!
Who’s your board school teacher? What’s
he been about?
Chock-a-block with fairy-tales — full of
useless cram,
And never heard o’ Bendigo, the pride of
Nottingham!
Bendy’s short for Bendigo. You should
see him peel!
Half of him was whalebone, half of him
was steel,
Fightin’ weight eleven ten, five foot nine
in height,
Always ready to oblige if you want a
fight.
I could talk of Bendigo from here to king-
dom come,
I guess before I ended you would wish your
dad was dumb.
I’d tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and
how the deaf ‘un fell,
But the game is done, and the men are
gone — and maybe it’s as well.
Bendy he turned Methodist — he said he
felt a call,
He stumped the country preachin’ and you
bet he filled the hall,
If you seed him in the pulpit, a-bleatin’
like a lamb,
You’d never know bold Bendigo, the
pride of Nottingham.
His hat was like a funeral, he’d got a
waiter’s coat,
With a hallelujah collar and a choker round
his throat,
His pals would laugh and say in chaff that
Bendigo was right,
In takin’ on the devil, since he’d no one
else to fight.
But he was very earnest, improvin’ day by
day,
A-workin’ and a-preachin’ just as his duty
lay,
But the devil he was waitin’, and in the
final bout,
He hit him hard below his guard and
knocked poor Bendy out.
Now I’ll tell you how it happened. He
was preachin’ down at Brum,
He was billed just like a circus, you should
see the people come,
The chapel it was crowded, and in the fore-
most row,
There was half a dozen bruisers who’d a
grudge at Bendigo.
There was Tommy Piatt of Bradford,
Solly Jones of Perry Bar,
Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the
same wot drew with Carr,
Jack Ball the fightin gunsmith, Joe Mur-
phy from the Mews,
And Iky Moss, the bettin’ boss, the
Champion of the Jews.
A very pretty handful a-sittin’ in a
string,
Full of beer and impudence, ripe for any-
thing,
Sittin’ in a string there, right under
Bendy’s nose,
If his message was for sinners, he could
make a start on those.
Soon he heard them chaflin’; “Hi, Bendy!
Here’s a go!”
“How much are you coppin’ by this Jump
to Glory show?”
“Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring! Mighty
spry of you!
Didn’t everybody know the ring was
leavin’ you.”
Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above
and prayed,
“Look down, O Lord, and grip me with
a strangle hold!” he said.
“Fix me with a strangle hold! Put a stop
on me!
I’m slippin’, Lord, I’m slippin’ and I’m
clingin’ hard to Thee!”
But the roughs they kept on chaffin’ and
the uproar it was such
That the preacher in the pulpit might be
talkin’ double Dutch,
Till a workin’ man he shouted out, a-
jumpin’ to his feet,
“Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave
‘em in the street.”
Then Bendy said, “Good Lord, since
first I left my sinful ways,
Thou knowest that to Thee alone I’ve
given up my days,
But now, dear Lord” — and here he laid his
Bible on the shelf —
“I’ll take, with your permission, just five
minutes for myself.”
He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger
from a den,
They say it was a lovely sight to see him
floor his men;
Right and left, and left and right, straight
and true and hard,
Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like
a knacker’s yard.
Platt was standin’ on his back and lookup
at his toes,
Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin’ for
his nose,
Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he
could do
Rakin’ for his ivories that lay about the
pew.
Jack Ball the fightin’ gunsmith was in a
peaceful sleep,
Joe Murphy lay across him, all tied up
in a heap,
Five of them was twisted in a tangle on
the floor,
And Iky Moss, the bettin’ boss, had
sprinted for the door.
Five repentant fightin’ men, sitting in a
row,
Listenin’ to words of grace from Mister
Bendigo,
Listenin’ to his reverence — all as good
as gold,
Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the
fold.
So that’s the way that Bendy ran his
mission in the slum,
And preached the Holy Gospel to the
fightin’ men of Brum,
“The Lord,” said he, “has given me His
message from on high,
And if you interrupt Him, I will know
the reason why.”
But to think of all your schooling clean
wasted, thrown away,
Darned if I can make out what you’re
learnin’ all the day,
Grubbin’ up old fairy-tales, fillin’ up with
cram,
And didn’t know of Bendigo, the pride
of Nottingham.
II. — PHILOSOPHIC VERSES
COMPENSATION
The grime is on the window pane,
Pale the London sunbeams fall,
And show the smudge of mildew stain,
Which lies on the distempered wall.
I am a cripple, as you see,
And here I lie, a broken thing,
But God has given flight to me,
That mocks the swiftest eagle wing.
For if I will to see or hear,
Quick as the thought my spirit flies,
And lo! the picture flashes clear,
Through all the mist of centuries.
I can recall the Tigris’ strand,
Where once the Turk and Tartar met,
When the great Lord of Samarcand
Struck down the Sultan Bajazet.
Under a ten-league swirl of dust
The roaring battle swings and sways,
Now reeling down, now upward thrust,
The crescent sparkles through the
haze.
I see the Janissaries fly,
I see the chain-mailed leader fall,
I he
ar the Tekbar clear and high,
The true believer’s battle-call.
And tossing o’er the press I mark
The horse-tail banner over all,
Shaped like the smudge of mildew dark
That lies on the distempered wall.
And thus the meanest thing I see
Will set a scene within my brain,
And every sound that comes to me,
Will bring strange echoes back again.
Hark now! In rhythmic monotone,
You hear the murmur of the mart,
The low, deep, unremitting moan,
That comes from weary London’s
heart.
But I can change it to the hum
Of multitudinous acclaim,
When triple-walled Byzantium,
Re-echoes the Imperial name.
I hear the beat of armed feet,
The legions clanking on their way,
The long shout rims from street to street,
With rolling drum and trumpet bray.
So I hear it rising, falling,
Till it dies away once more,
And I hear the costers calling
Mid the weary London roar.
Who shall pity then the lameness,
Which still holds me from the ground?
Who commiserate the sameness
Of the scene that girds me round?
Though I lie a broken wreck,
Though I seem to want for all,
Still the world is at my beck
And the ages at my call.
THE BANNER OF PROGRESS
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 959