(Dedicated to the Fife, Dorset, Devon, Somerset, and Sussex
Imperial Yeomanry Squadrons.)
"The War has grown flat, stale, and unprofitable as a topic for
conversation."--_Extract from Editorial Notes in "Black and
White," September 20th._
We came from many a town and shire,
From road, and street, and alley,
And, filled with patriotic fire,
Around the flag did rally.
For many thousand miles we sailed,
Till reached was Afric's strand;
At Cape Town for some weeks we stayed,
Not yet on foeman's land.
At last we got the word to move,
To join the fighting army;
And so we left our peaceful groove,
With fighting lust half balmy.
Away we marched o'er dusty ways,
Through spruit and blooming donga,
For chilly nights and burning days,
With feelings ever stronger.
We passed Milishy on the road,
And heard their imprecations
Because they bore the Empire's load
Upon communications.
At last we joined Lord Roberts' force,
And later we did sever,
And got attached to bold Mahon's Horse,
For we go on for ever.
With Hamilton and Mahon we went
Due east to wet Balmoral;
Where oh! an awful night we spent.
What ho! the victor's laurel!
Then west we rode to catch De Wet--
We thought 'twas now or never;
But he, in his particular way,
And we, go on for ever.
To Rustenburg we went with Mahon
The wily Boers to scatter;
Burnt many a farm and useful barn,
And got--our clothes a-tatter.
Then later, we did join Clements,
From him to part, oh, never!
For wars may cease, and wars commence,
But we go on for ever.
We grumble, grumble, as we roam
Beside the hills or river,
For troops we hear are going home,
But we go on for ever.
We steal (we call it loot out here)
The foeman's fowls and tucker,
And now and then we come off well,
And now and then a mucker.
We've marched by night to catch the foe,
Yet spite each bold endeavour,
Crises may come and crises go,
But _this_ goes on for ever.
At home, first China, then elections,
Have claimed their keen attention;
Now football, crimes, and other things--
The War they seldom mention.
Soon our nearest and our dearest
Won't think our generals clever,
If we and this confounded War
Keep going on for ever.
Sunday, October 28th. Last night we ascended Avernus again, and did the
usual guard on the summit. Of course, we had some rain and its
concomitants. Apart from that, and the circumstance of the
sergeant-major of the Dorsets, who is 6-ft. 3-ins., and scales 15 stone,
treading on my head in the dark in mistake for a rock, nothing of note
occurred. As regards the incident alluded to, it lends significance to
my being occasionally referred to as "Peter," thanks to my suggestive
initials, P.T.R. Hence it seems natural for me to be mistaken for a
rock. Still, I trust these mistakes will not often happen.
On Monday (October 29th), Captain McLean, of rowing fame, and Lieutenant
Wynne marched up to Blok Kloof with the ex-Policemen of the Sussex
Squadron, and we, having first been paraded before Sir Elliot--who in a
few kind words severed his connection with us, to our regret, as
captain--rejoined our former comrades. The other squadron of the 7th
Battalion of West Somerset Yeomanry, under Captain Harris, was left for
duty at Rietfontein.
Colonel Browne (we were all pleased to hear of his promotion this month)
having received orders to withdraw from the Kloof and rejoin Clements at
Hekpoort, gave the order for us to be ready to march off at dusk. Soon
after sunset, rain, which had been threatening all day, commenced to
fall, and we had a rather uncomfortable night march to Hekpoort. We
reached there at midnight, turned-in on the wet veldt for a few hours
and were up again at four. That day we were rearguard and going in a
south-westerly direction marched through Hartley's Nek (in the
Witwatersberg) and encamped the other side.