Louis Selmer [Selmer - BOER WAR LYRICS - Battlefield Poetry from the Boer Wars

BY
LOUIS SELMER

Originally Published by

THE

PUBLISHERS

114 FIFTH AVENUE
London NEW YORK Montreal

[1903]

Resurrected by

Abela Publishing

London

[2018]

Boer War Lyrics

Typographical arrangement of this edition

Abela Publishing 2018

This book may not be reproduced in its current format in any

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Abela Publishing,

London

United Kingdom

2018

ISBN-13: 978-X-XXXXXX-XX-X

email:

Books@AbelaPublishing.com

Website:

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Stop the War

By Walter Crane, 1900

Both have fought hard and suffered much.

In the name of humanity, stay your hands

and use your heads to find a basis of agreement.

Abela Publishing acknowledges the work that

LOUIS SELMER

did in collating and publishing

Boer War Lyrics

in a time well before any electronic media was in use.

Acknowledgements

Contents

Preface

Prelude

Boer War Lyrics

Introduction

Argument

Videlicet (Hour Before DawnThe Muse Brooding.)

The Gibbet-Song.

The Scar

To England: A Forecast

War

Clio

Ave Pax

Alpha

Omega

Greatness

Peter Cronje

Christian De Wet.

Oom Paul

Cecil Rhodes

Chamberlain

Salisbury

Peace Pending.

Peace

After

Christian De Wet.

Sine Die

A Concordance

MOST of the verse in this little volume were conceived and written, if not quite finished, at the time of Cronjes surrender at Paardeberg in February 1900.

A certain doubt, however, as to any message of theirs, though modestly set off by a belief in their polemic and literary value, has, I think now, unduly delayed their advent into the crowded world of print; and, though the present juncture of a heralded, but, by no means, perfected peace, be perhaps not a very opportune moment for their publication, I have yet thought well to give them forth; the more, since what so be the outcome of the negotiations pending, and whichsoever be the motive of the stronger party theretowhether a bitter, though slowly realized necessity, or, a trick of pure heart, or, say, tardy insight and charity, bothbe this as it maythe long, though fruitless attempt on Englands part to compel a surrender by the South African republics of their political existence, illustrating and upholding, as no modern exhibition of this kind has done, how rampant is still in Man, and collective Man especially, a tacit faith in the bigger fist, or, euphemistically speaking, the predatory law of naturethis, I repeat it, can never, it seems to me, be sufficiently reprehended; and a hearty condemnation of it may, therefore, fitly form the theme of conscientious, if necessarily, censorious verse: with which contention the following pieces are frankly submitted, even at this late day of a stupendous struggle of moral Rightwhatsoever its intellectual grounds and equipmentagainst an aggressive and overweening Might, whose partial defence allowed, rests, after all, and as already maintained, its wider base on purely material force, on that callous and objective expediency, which History, in her account of human odds, evermore reveals, and, far too often, glaringly condones.

New York , May, 1902.

Since the above was set down, Peace has at last gone forth, and of a pace with the better drift and traditions of England; but even so, there seems no valid ground why these Lyrics should not be heard, as an exponent in briefinadequate, if you like, yet human no lessof a, for a long time, not to be forgotten broil, if, indeed, the sad imp of Contention has had his last say about it.

November, 1902.

Out of rare heart-deeps flowing,
Primer than thought-spring founts,
Upward, gainst vaster knowing,
Lightsome the Song-word mounts.

And athrob with some faith etern,
From Beings deep-violed strings,
Draweth, to heaves that burn,
The advent and sooth of things.

Invokes unto Song, where the still Hopes go,
The Spirits immutable law.

(History in Verse.)

Somewhere to the Moonward, or Sunward, so to speak;
A span or two to Eastward, then Southward by a streak,
Was heard to blare of tomtom a shameless epic wail,
At fancy of some Lion who had whisked his blooming tail
Plumb thro a nest of hornets, nor never dreamt the hive
Had such a trick to mind him how were that tail alive.
And it seems the skies were blathering while every wind-god swore

The Pities would have curdled to hear the Beastie roar.
All offered salve and comfort, said never done was Wrong,
But some requiting Themis should venge it to her song;
Should smite the pesting dwarfies and heal the giants bruise,
See paw and toothie peak not for lack of worthy use.
And, O, the strain fell whopping to thunderdrip of sooth,
A lamb-like lyric slopping its pace with bleary ruth;
Nay, in sober last, an epic, outworking thro the fact,
Through blaze of hostile numbers, its own and bitter act.
And it shook us to the Westwarda touch of kin and near
We banged our shoppy hatches: we had a right to hear.

And thisyes, this, was the song of the Sorrowful True,
Which Father Wicked, the Old, for his child, the New,
He, and that cherub of rowdy fist,
Wholl blithely shake it where erst he kissed
That covered Holy, the unctuous Wrong
With his blushing bouncer, St. Meek, the Strong;
Set jointly down (while in crafty doubt
A wilful Muse turned it inside out,
Bared hide and heart of the stalking lore,
Its bluff and cant to their dismal core)
Set down, I say, to mock-halcyon cheers,
As, with knife at throat of the suckling years,
They bled the weans, lest with peaceful bear,
Or, for other virtues in hiding there,
The gods, who winnow all mortal stock,
Should nurse the goats while they weed the flock
Let for lack of pasture the true herd pine:
And all for what? For a humping quibble on Mine and Thine!
Nay, lest Rue, the babbler, with saucy dare,
Should sit in judgment twixt Foul and Fair;
Should slaver worse, if she came of age,
With inglorious snivel wise Clios page:
Lest all of this, with what sousing tact
They niced her the diverse of whim and fact;
How glowed their zeal as they raked the Rue,
Broke font and tablet and put her through
Such drench of penance and convert-course,
Such Christian baptism from Truth, the Source:
Sure text nor ritual made never doubt,
Nor seasoned clerks, as with wary snout,
Each subtle wealsman stood sly at bay:
For leet or laurellet wise Time say.

* * * * * * *

Wellthis was the Song of the Sorrowful True: