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قراءة كتاب Boer War Lyrics

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‏اللغة: English
Boer War Lyrics

Boer War Lyrics

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 5

hand—

And there was nudge and jobbing kiss,
And scan o’ map and leer of eye:
“How came our wits so wide of this—
It lay so near and tempting by?”
While in at gate flowed pick and raff,
For catch is life to brotherhood;
Each tribesman bent, thro’ clean or draff,
To swing his carp from out the mud.
And every hoist and tackle told,
As sure it ought, where sleek and trim,
At scoop and dive for wriggling gold,
The big Mouths join and steer the Swim.
While coy, thro’ fill of common eye,
As fadged with tooth of safer breed,
Smug Power yet found crumbs to fry,
While sampling Chefs gave dainty heed.
And snacks went ’round for taste and tout:
The Home-cook swore the stuff was fine:
“Why should such plums be ladled out
To grunting clod and boorish swine?
“Not swell our own and proved Menu?
This crowd at board keeps coming still:
Suppose we shift, à son insu,
To nab his joint, and eke the bill?
“Or what’s the same—we fix his stew,
Put such a sauce in broth and dish—
Such plausive snap and tang o’ True—
That none shall dream we came to fish;
“But love of man was all we meant;
Till, less in doubt each lode-star gaze,
At Heaven’s clear, tho’ mute intent,
By as we head, to hold her pace.
“And this fellow, certes, has sore behoof
To take a word from wiser mouths,
Who has stretched his crib and smoky roof
Whence North-from, down, the zone-line souths;
“Almost a split—a crying jag;
A scare at top, a threat, below;
An ugly tuck that scrimps the bag
We meant to fill as harvests grow.
“In our big sail a plaguy reef,
Were it not that craft o’ his pert make
With too much head have come to grief,
Strew bottom up our rushing wake.
“Against the owl what counts the mouse?
But no. That strains a bit the proper zest:
He shall have due of grounds and house,
We’ll dish for him as for the rest.
“’Twill daze him, sure, our big provide,
Till, on a breath, he vent his stare:
‘Such doors as these had best be tried,
Ere back to thatch and homely fare.’
“And say he sulks, we’ll coax him in:
What does he care who carves the meat?
So fill of fodder strew the bin,
Who rules the loft, or heads the treat?
“He will never quibble on a word,
Give simple ‘rob’ a double sense;
But loyal strain shall well accord
With leave of thrift and competence.
“And ’tis trite as dirt, where’er we go,
The sleek slut, Trade, trots close at heel,
’Gainst whose hard sense how fares the saw,
The musty fib—‘Thou shalt not steal!’
“Yes—we’ll be his staff and hedge him fine,
Till lust of Have like gospel read,
And his backbone in the general spine
Does merge its hump and dogged breed.
“The idiot pluck with which he strove
To shield his hearth with freehold fence,
And rather wear the homely wove
Than rig to suit our lofty sense.
“His rooted stand and settled haze
The foot he plants ’gainst sudden New,
Whose golden tilth and reap of grace
Holds furrowed snug the only True.
“His crafty shield; those mealy snares
For simple lambs. His wolfish doubt,
When, stung and wrung with sore his cares,
They flocked to help friend Hodges out—
“And forced from faith his better word,
And warped his truth with keen despair,
That the large rights for which he chored
Should never greet a lineal heir.
“But all his throb and bitter sweat,
His blood paid down for desert lands,
Should snap its lease, be lightly set
A hawker’s trust in stranger hands—
“And how for this he bled and drove,
Cribbed-in this band of saintly Peace;
Played wary host to all their trove,
Made yare go ’round the golden fleece—
“And worst—those sons of loot, his bossy crew!
Who, fearing thieves, would chance no charm,
But gag the spoiler ’fore he grew
To oust their rights with legal arm.
“All this: shocks! ’Twere worth a bloody nose:
To size him up, then pare him down,
Till, as to cure the treatment grows,
We snug him hale within the Crown.
“A gem whose shine and proper place
And dapper fit to lofty plan
He’ll soon see clear thro’ his amaze,
With contrite heart—the leal man.
“And Square-toes’ gait at last be set;
With social wash to status brought
His lowly breed and rustic sweat:
O, God of Thrift! What happy thought!”

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