'Those Boers can't be blamed, as you might understand;
They are trying to free their own native land,
Where they toil night and day by the sweat of their brow,
Like the farmers in Ireland that follow the plough.
Farewell to Old Ireland, we are now going away,
To fight the brave Boers in South Africa;
To fight those poor farmers we are not inclined:
God be with you, Old Ireland, we are leaving behind.'
Some verses--'The Boer's Prayer'--that I have not seen on a
ballad-sheet, but in a weekly paper, give better expression to this
feeling of farmer sympathy:--
'My back is to the wall;
Lo! here I stand.
O Lord, whate'er befall,
I love this land!
'This land that I have tilled,
This land is mine;
Would, Lord, that Thou hadst willed,
This heart were Thine!
'This land to us Thou gave
In days of old;
They seek to make a grave
Or field of gold!
'To us, O Lord, Thy hand,
Put forth to save!
Give us, O Lord, this land
Or give a grave!'
'A New Song for the Boers' says:--
'Hark! to the curses ringing
From all smitten lands;
In sob and wail, they tell the tale
Of England's blood-red hands.
'And wheresoe'er her standard flings
Forth its folds of shame,
A people's cries to heaven arise
For vengeance on her name!'
But for passionate expression, one cannot, as I have already said, look
to the comparatively new and artificial English ballad form; one must go
to the Irish, with its long tradition. Here is a poem, 'The Curse of the
Boers on England,' which I have translated literally from the Irish:--
'O God, we call to Thee,
This hour and this day,
Look down on this England
That has come down in our midst.
'O God, we call to Thee,
This day and this hour,
Look down on England,
And her cold, cold heart.
'It is she was a Queen,
A Queen without sorrow;
But we will take from her,
Quietly, her Crown.
'That Queen that was beautiful
Will be tormented and darkened,
For she will get her reward
In that day, and her wage.
'Her wage for the blood
She poured out on the streams;
Blood of the white man,
Blood of the black man.
'Her wage for those hearts
That she broke in the end;
Hearts of the white man,
Hearts of the black man.
'Her wage for the bones
That are whitening to-day;
Bones of the white man,
Bones of the black man.
'Her wage for the hunger
That she put on foot;
Her wage for the fever,
That is an old tale with her.
'Her wage for the white villages
She has left without men;
Her wage for the brave men
She has put to the sword.
'Her wage for the orphans
She has left under pain;
Her wage for the exiles
She has spent with wandering.
'For the people of India
(Pitiful is their case);
For the people of Africa
She has put to death.
'For the people of Ireland,
Nailed to the cross;
Wage for each people
Her hand has destroyed.
'Her wage for the thousands
She deceived and she broke;
Her wage for the thousands
Finding death at this hour.
'O Lord, let there fall
Straight down on her head
The curse of the peoples
That have fallen with us.
'The curse of the mean,
And the curse of the small,
The curse of the weak,
And the curse of the low.
'The Lord does not listen
To the curse of the strong,
But He will listen
To sighs and to tears.
'He will always listen
To the crying of the poor,
And the crying of thousands
Is abroad to-night.
'That crying will rise up
To God that is above;
It is not long till every curse
Comes to His ears.
'The crying will be put away;
Tears will be put away,
When they come to God,
These prayers to His kingdom.
'He will make for England
Strong chains, very heavy;
He will pay her wages
With strong, heavy chains.
1901.