Title: Chants for the Boer
Author: Miller, Joaquin
Language: English
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  CHANTS
  FOR THE
  BOER

  _By
  JOAQUIN MILLER_

  “_And whether on the scaffold high,
  Or in the battle’s van,
  The fittest place for man to die
  Is where he dies for man._”

  San Francisco
  The Whitaker & Ray Company
  (Incorporated)
  1900



  Copyright, 1900
  by
  The Whitaker & Ray Company
  (Incorporated)



CONTENTS.

  TO THE BOERS.
  TO YE FIGHTING LORDS OF LONDON TOWN.
  MOTHER EGYPT.
  ANGLO-SAXON ALLIANCE.
  INDIA AND THE BOERS.
  AT THE CALEND’S CLOSE.
  AS IT IS WRITTEN.
  TO OOM PAUL KRUGER.
  USLAND TO THE BOERS.
  THAT USSIAN OF USLAND.
  FIGHT A BOY OF YOUR SIZE.



  _For the right that needs assistance,
  For the wrong that needs resistance,
  For the glory in the distance,
  For the good that we can do._



Find here not one ill word for brave old England; my first, best
friends were English. But for her policy, her politicians, her
speculators, what man with a heart in him can but hate and abhor them?
England’s best friends to-day are those who deplore this assault on the
farmer Boers, so like ourselves a century back. Could any man be found
strong enough to stay her hand with sword or pen in this mad hour? That
man would deserve her lasting gratitude. This feeling of abhorrence
holds in England as well as here. Take for example the following from
her ablest thinker to a friend in Philadelphia:

  “I rejoice that you and others are bent on showing that there are
  some among us who think the national honor is not being enhanced by
  putting down the weak. Would that age and ill health did not prevent
  me from aiding.

  “No one can deny that at the time of the Jameson Raid the aim of the
  Outlanders and the raiders was to usurp the Transvaal Government,
  and he must be willfully blind who does not see what the Outlanders
  failed to do by bullets they hope presently to do by votes, and
  only those who, while jealous of their own independence, regard
  but little the independence of people who stand in their way, can
  fail to sympathize with the Boers in their resistance to political
  extinction.

  “It is sad to see our Government backing those whose avowed policy
  is expansion, which, less politely expressed, means aggression, for
  which there is a still less polite word readily guessed. On behalf
  of these, the big British Empire, weapon in hand, growls out to the
  little Boer Republic, ‘Do as I bid you.’

  “I have always thought that nobleness is shown in treating tenderly
  those who are relatively feeble and even sacrificing on their behalf
  something to which there is a just claim. But, if current opinion is
  right, I must have been wrong.”

                                                      _Herbert Spencer._



  CHANTS
  FOR THE BOER

  BY
  JOAQUIN MILLER



  TO THE BOERS.

  “_For Freedom’s battles once begun,
  Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,
  Though baffled oft, are ever won._”

                             --_BYRON._


  The Sword of Gideon, Sword of God
  Be with ye, Boers. Brave men of peace
  Ye hewed the path, ye brake the sod,
  Ye fed white flocks of fat increase
  Where Saxon foot had never trod;
  Where Saxon foot unto this day
  Had measured not, had never known
  Had ye not bravely led the way
  And made such happy homes your own.

  I think God’s house must be such home.
  The priestess Mother, choristers
  Who spin and weave nor care to roam
  Beyond this white God’s house of hers,
  But spinning sing and spin again.
  I think such silent shepherd men
  Most like that few the prophet sings--
  Most like that few stout Abram drew
  Triumphant o’er the slaughtered Kings.

  Defend God’s house! Let fall the crook.
  Draw forth the plowshare from the sod
  And trust, as in the Holy Book,
  The Sword of Gideon and of God;
  God and the right! Enough to fight
  A million regiments of wrong.
  Defend! Nor count what comes of it.
  God’s battle bides not with the strong;
  And pride must fall. Lo, it is writ!

  Great England’s Gold! how stanch she fares
  Fame’s wine cup pressing her proud lips--
  Her checkerboard of battle squares
  Rimmed round by steel-built battleships!
  And yet meanwhiles ten thousand miles
  She seeks ye out. Well, welcome her!
  Give her such welcome with such will
  As Boston gave in battle’s whir
  That red, dread day at Bunker Hill.

  SAN FRANCISCO, September, 1899.



TO YE FIGHTING LORDS OF LONDON TOWN.

CHRISTMAS MORNING, 1899.

  “_The equipment of the Maine hospital ship by our American cousins
  warrants us in saying at least that they wish us well._”


  We wish you well in all that’s well,
  Would bind your wounds, would clothe, would feed--
  Lay flowers where your brave men fell
  In desert lands, exalt each deed
  Of sacrifice; would beg to lay
  White lilies by the gray hearthstone
  Where, bowed in black this Christmas day,
  She wails her brave dead far away
  And weeps, so more than all alone:
  Weeps while the chime, the chilly chime,
  Drops on her heart, drops all the time
  As one might drop a stone.

  But you, ye lords and gentlemen
  High throned, safe housed at home, fat fed,
  When ye say we approve ye, when
  Ye say this blood so bravely shed
  Is shed with our consent, take care,
  Lest Truth may take ye unaware;
  Lest Truth be heard despite these chimes.
  This hearthstone, brother’s blood that cries
  To God is Freedom’s blood. Take care
  Lest all sweet earth these piteous times
  Not only hate ye for your crimes,
  But scorn ye for your lies!

  We would forgive could we forget:
  We could forget all wrongs we knew
  Had ye stayed hand some little yet--
  Left to their own that farmer few
  So like ourselves that fateful hour
  Ye forced our farmers from the plow
  To grapple with your tenfold power.
  They guessed your greed, we know it now;
  And now we ward ye from this hour!
  Now, well awake no more we sleep,
  But keep and keep and ever keep
  To Freedom’s high watchtower.

  Not all because our Washington
  In battle’s carnage, years and years,
  And this same Boer braved ye as one--
  Blent blood with blood and tears with tears:
  Not all because of kindred blood,
  Not all because they built a town
  And left such names of true renown.[A]
  Not all because of Luther, Huss:
  But most because of Brotherhood
  In Freedom’s Hall; the holy right
  To fight for Home, as freemen fight--
  Who Freedom stabs, stabs Us!

  This Nation’s heart, say what men may
  Who butcher Peace and barter Truth,
  Beats true as on its natal day,
  Beats true as in its battle-youth,
  Beats true to Freedom, true to Truth,
  Whatever Tories dare to say.
  Of all who fought with Washington
  One Arnold was and only one.
  Christ chose but twelve, yet one poor soul
  Sold God for silver. Ever thus
  Some taint, and even so with Us:
  But Freedom thrills the whole.

  My Lords, ye lead, through Him who died,
  Your dauntless millions. Ye are wise
  And learned. Ye are, beside,
  As God’s anointed in their eyes,
  Ye sit so far above their reach.
  Such trust! But are ye truly true
  To what He taught, to what ye preach,
  To those who trust and look to you?
  Then why mocked ye that manly Russ,
  That august man, that manliest man
  That yet has been since time began?
  Ye mocked, as ye mock Us!

  My Lords, slow paced and somber clad
  Ye all will fare to church to-day
  And there sit solemn faced and sad
  With eyes to book, as if to pray.
  And will ye think of Him who came
  And lived so poor and died so lorn--
  Came in the name of Peace, the name
  Of God, that fair first Christmas morn?
  My Lords, ye needs must think to-day--
  Your eyes bent to the Holy Book
  The while the people look and look--
  For dare ye try to pray?

  And while ye think of Christ the child
  Think of the childless mother, she
  Whose dead boy has his desert wild,
  While yours his Christmas tree;
  Think of the mother, far away,
  Who sits and weeps with hollow eyes,
  Her hungry child that cries and cries
  Forlorn and fatherless to-day:
  Think of the thousand homes that weep
  All desolate, who but for ye
  To-day had decked their Christmas tree;
  Then fare ye home and--sleep?

[A] NOTE.--“I thank God there is not a drop of Saxon blood in my
veins. I am a Dutchman; Boer, if you please.”--_Rough-rider Roosevelt,
Governor of New York and heir apparent to the Presidency of Us._



MOTHER EGYPT.

_Dedicated to England on her invasion of North Africa._


  Dark browed, she broods with weary lids
  Beside her Sphinx and Pyramids,
  With low and never-lifted head.
  If she be dead, respect the dead;
  If she be weeping, let her weep;
  If she be sleeping, let her sleep;
  For lo, this woman named the stars!
  She suckled at her tawny dugs
  Your Moses while you reeked in wars
  And prowled your woods, nude, painted thugs.

  Then back, brave England; back in peace
  To Christian isles of fat increase!
  Go back! Else bid your high priests bear
  The sword and curse the sweet plowshare;
  Take down their cross from proud Saint Paul’s
  And coin it into cannon-balls!
  You tent not far from Nazareth,
  Your camps trench where his child-feet strayed.
  If Christ had seen this work of death!
  If Christ had seen these ships invade!

  I think the patient Christ had said,
  “Go back, brave men! Take up your dead;
  Draw down your great ships to the seas;
  Repass the gates of Hercules;
  Go back to wife with babe at breast,
  And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.”
  Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is?
  Ah, England, hear me yet again;
  There’s something grimly wrong in this--
  So like some gray, sad woman slain.

  What would you have your mother do?
  Hath she not done enough for you?
  Go back! And when you learn to read,
  Come read this obelisk. Her deed
  Like yonder awful forehead is
  Disdainful silence. Like to this
  What lessons have you writ in stone
  To passing nations that shall stand?
  Why, years, as hers, will leave you lone
  And level as yon yellow sand.

  Saint George? Your lions? Whence are they?
  From awful, silent Africa.
  This Egypt is the lion’s lair;
  Beware, brave Albion, beware!
  I feel the very Nile should rise
  To drive you from this sacrifice.
  And if the seven plagues should come?
  The red seas swallow sword and steed?
  Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumb
  To see thy more than Moslem deed.



ANGLO-SAXON ALLIANCE.

_England’s Colonial Secretary, who must bear a great part of the blame
and shame of this Boer war, has said publicly that there is something
like alliance between England and the United States. Our Secretary of
State says there is nothing of the sort, and we know there is not, nor
can be, until “We, the People,” choose to have it, and that will not be
until this crime against the Boer is forgotten, as well as Bunker Hill
and the Fourth of July._


  Alliance! And with whom? For what?
  Comes there the skin-clad Vandal down
  From Danube’s wilds with vengeance hot?
  Comes Turk with torch to sack the town
  And wake the world with battle shot?
  Come wild beasts loosened from the lair?
  No, no! Right fair blue Danube sweeps.
  No, no! The Turk, the wild beast sleeps.
  No, no! There’s something more than this--
  Or Judas’ kiss? Or serpent’s hiss?
  There’s mischief in the air!

  Alliance! And with whom? For what?
  Did we not bear an hundred years
  Of England’s hate, hot battle shot,
  Blent, ever blent, with scorn and jeers?
  And we survived it, did we not?
  We bore her hate, let’s try to bear
  Her love; but watch her and beware!
  Beware the Greek with gifts and fair
  Kind promises and courtly praise.
  Beware the serpent’s subtle ways--
  There’s mischief in the air!

  Alliance! And for what? With whom?
  She burned our Freedom’s Fane. She spat
  Vile venom on the sacred tomb
  Of Washington; the while she sat
  High throned, fat fed, and safe at home,
  And bade slaves hound and burn and slay,
  Just as in Africa to-day;
  Just as she would, will when she dare
  Send sword and torch and once again
  Make red the white rim of our main--
  There’s mischief in the air!

  Alliance! Twice with sword and flame:
  Alliance! Thrice with craft and fraud:
  And now you come in Freedom’s name.
  In Freedom’s name? The name of God!
  Go to--the Boers. For shame, for shame!
  With wedge of gold you split us twain
  Then launched your bloodhounds on the main;
  But now, my Lords, so soft, so fair--
  How long would this a-lie-ance last?
  Just long enough to tie Us fast--
  Then music in the air!



INDIA AND THE BOERS.

_The Boers are a sober, industrious and most hospitable body of
peasantry._--_DR. LIVINGSTONE._


  You heard that song of the Jubilee!
  Ten thousand cannon took up the song,
  Ten million people came out to see,
  A surging, eager and anxious throng.
  And the great were glad as glad could be;
  Glad at Windsor, glad at Saint James,
  Glad of glory and of storied names,
  Generals, lords and gentlemen,
  Such as we never may see again,
  And ten thousand banners aflying!
  But up the Thames and down the Thames
  Bare, hungered babes lay crying,
  Poor, homeless men sat sighing;
  And far away, in fair Cathay,
  An Eden land but yesterday,
  Lay millions, starving, dying.

  Prone India! All her storied gems--
  Those stolen gems that decked the Crown
  And glittered in those garment-hems,
  That Jubilee in London town--
  Were not, and all her walls were down,
  Her plowshare eaten up with rust,
  Her peaceful people prone in dust,
  Her wells gone dry and drying.
  You ask how came these things to be?
  I turn you straight to historie;
  To generals, lords and gentlemen
  Who cut the dykes, blew down the walls
  And plowed the land with cannon-balls,
  Then sacked the ruined land and then--
  Great London and the Jubilee,
  With lying banners aflying.

  Eight millions starved to death! You hear?[B]
  You heard the song of that Jubilee,
  And you might have heard, had you given ear,
  My generals, lords and gentlemen,
  From where the Ganges seeks the sea,
  Such wails between the notes, I fear,
  As you never had cared to hear again.
  The dead heaped down in the dried-up wells,
  The dead, like corn, in the fertile fields
  You had plowed and crossed with your cannon wheels,
  The dead in towns that were burning hells
  Because the water was under your heels!
  They thirsted! You drank at the Jubilee,
  My generals, lords and gentlemen,
  Drank as you hardly may come to when
  The final account of your deeds may be.

  Eight millions starved! Yet the Jubilee--
  Why, never such glory since Solomon’s throne.
  The world was glad that it came to see,
  And the Saxon said, “Lo, the world is mine own!”
  But mark you! That glittering great Crown stone,
  And the thousand stars that dimmed in this sun,
  Were stolen, were stolen every one,
  Were stolen from those who starved and died!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Brave Boers, grim Boers, look to your guns!
  They want your diamonds, these younger ones--
  Young generals, lords and gentlemen--
  Robbers to-day as they were robbers then.
  Look to your guns! for a child can see
  (Can your children see now for crying?)
  That they want your gems! Ah, that Jubilee,
  With those lying banners aflying!

[B] See report of Julian Hawthorne, sent by a New York magazine to
photograph and give details of the starving in India, about the time
of the Jubilee. He does not give these figures, but his facts and
photographs warrant a fearful estimate. As for the subjugation of
India and the wanton destruction, not only of life, but the very
means of life, this is history. And now, again, is despoiled India
starving,--starving, dying of hunger as before; even more fearfully,
even while England is trying to despoil the Boers. And when her
speculators and politicians have beaten them and despoiled them of
their gold and diamonds and herds, what then? Why, leave them to starve
as in India, or struggle on in the wilderness as best they can.



AT THE CALEND’S CLOSE.

  “_For faith hath still an Olivet
  And Love a Galilee._”


  Two things: the triple great North Star,
    To poise and keep His spheres in place,
  And Zeus for peace: for peace the Tzar.
    Or Science, Progress, Good or Grace,
  These two the centum’s fruitage are;
      And of the two this olive tree
      Stands first, aye, first since Galilee.

  Christ’s centum bends his frosted head;
    Christ’s calend calls a solemn roll.
  What shall be writ, what shall be said
    Of Saxon when this blood-writ scroll
  By God’s white light at last is read?
      What of ye Saxon nations, ye
      Who prate the Christ most noisily?

  The eagle’s bent beak at the throat
    Of Peace where far, fair islands lie:
  The greedy lion sees a mote
    In his brave, weaker brother’s eye
  And crouches low, to gorge and gloat.
      The Prince of Peace? Ye write his name
      In blood, then dare to pray! For shame!

  These Saxon lies on top of lies,
    Ten millstones to the neck of us,
  Forbid that we should lift our eyes
    Till we dare meet that manlier Russ;
  In peons for peace of paradise:
      Forbid that we, until the day
      We wash our hands, should dare to pray.



AS IT IS WRITTEN.


  The she wolf’s ruthless whelp that tare
  Old Africa is dead and all
  Despised; but Egypt still is fair,
  Jugartha brave; and Hannibal
  Still hero of the Alps and more
  To-day than all red men of Rome.
  Archimedes still holds his measured home;
  Grim Marius his ruins as of yore,
  And heart still turns to heart, as then.
  Live by the sword and by the sword
  Ye surely die: thus saith the Lord--
  And die despised of men.



TO OOM PAUL KRUGER.

ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.


  His shield a skin, his sword a prayer:
    Seventy-five years old to-day!
  Yet mailed young hosts are marshaling there
  To hound down in his native lair--
    Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

  Mars! Ever was such shameless shame?
    Christ’s calend calls the roll to-day,
  Yet Christians write the sweet Christ’s name
  In blood, and seek, with sword and flame--
    Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

  Stand firm, grim shepherd-hero, stand!
    The world’s watchtowers teem to-day
  With men who pray with lifted hand
  For you and yours, old, simple, grand--
    Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

  God’s pity for the foolish few
    Who guide great England’s hosts to-day!
  They cannot make the false the true;
  They can but turn true hearts to you--
    Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

  Or king or cowboy, steep or plain,
    Or palace hall, where, what--to-day,
  All, all, despite of place or gain,
  Are with you, with you heart and brain--
    Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

  Brave England’s bravest, best, her Fair,
    Who love fair play, are yours to-day.
  And oh, the heart, the hope, the prayer--
  The _world_ is with you over there--
    Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.



USLAND[C] TO THE BOERS.


  And where lies Usland, Land of Us?
    Where Freedom lives, there Usland lies!
  Fling down that map and measure thus
    Or argent seas or sapphire skies:
  To north the North Pole, south as far
    As ever eagle cleaved his way;
  To east the blazing morning star,
    And west? West to the Judgment Day!

  No borrowed lion, rampt in gold;
    No bleeding Erin, plaintive strains;
  No starving millions, mute and cold;
    No plundered India, prone in chains;
  No peaceful farmer, forced to fly
    Or draw his plowshare from the sod,
  And, fighting, one to fifty, die
    For freedom, fireside and God.

  Fear not, brave, freeborn, voiceless Boers.
    Great Usland’s heart is yours to-day.
  Aye, England’s heart of hearts is yours,
    Whatever scheming men may say.
  Her scheming men have mines to sell,
    And we? Why, meat and corn and wheat.
  But, Boers, all brave hearts wish you well;
    For England’s triumph means defeat.

[C] It is a waste of ink and energy to write “United States of America”
always. All our property is marked Us. Then why not Usland? And why
should we always say American? The Canadian, the Mexican, the Brazilian
and so on are as entirely entitled to the name American as we. Why not
say Usman, as Frenchman, German, and so on?



THAT USSIAN OF USLAND.

_Anent the boundary line--“Lest we forget, lest we forget.”_


  “I am an Ussian true,” he said;
    “Keep off the grass there, Mister Bull!
  For if you don’t I’ll bang your head
    And bang your belly-full.

  “Now mark, my burly jingo-man,
    So prone to muss and fuss and cuss,
  I am an Ussian, spick and span,
    From out the land of Us!”

  The stout man smole a frosty smile--
    “An Ussian! Russian, Rusk, or Russ?”
  “No, no! an Ussian, every while;
    My land the land of Us.”

  “Aw! Usland, Uitland? or, maybe,
    Some Venezuela I’d forgot.
  Hand out your map and let me see
    Where Usland is and what.”

  The lank man leaned and spread his map
    And shewed the land and shewed,
  Then eyed and eyed that paunchy chap,
    And pulled his chin and chewed.

  “What do you want?” A face grew red,
    And red chop whiskers redder grew.
  “I want the earth,” the Ussian said,
    “And all Alaska, too.

  “My stars swim up yon seas of blue;
    No Shind am I, Boer, Turk or Russ.
  I am an Ussian--Ussian true;
    My land the land of Us.

  “My triple North Star lights me on,
    My Southern Cross leads ever thus;
  My sun scarce sets till burst of dawn.
    Hands off the Land of Us!”



FIGHT A BOY OF YOUR SIZE.


  Back, far back in that backwood’s school
    Of Lincoln, Grant and the great we prize
  We boys would fight, but we had one rule--
    You must fight a boy of your size.

  Or white boy or brown, aye, Boer no doubt,
    Whatever the quarrel, whatever the prize
  You must stand up fair and so fight it out
    With a boy somewhat your size.

  But a big boy spoiled so for fights, he did,
    He lied most diplomatic-like-lies
  And he fought such fights--ye gods forbid--
    But never a boy of his size.

  He skinned and he tanned, kept hide, kept hair,
    Now I am speaking figure-wise--
  But he didn’t care who and he didn’t care where
    Just so he was under size.

  Then the big boy cried, “A big chief am I,
    I was born to bang and to civilize,
  And yet sometimes I, in my pride I sigh
    For something about my size.”

  Then the good Schoolmaster he reached a hand
    And across his knee he did flop crosswise
  That bully, and raise in his good right hand
    A board of considerable size.

  And the good Schoolmaster he smote that chief,
    He smote both hips and he smote both thighs;
  And he said as he smote, “It is my belief
    This board is about your size.”

         *       *       *       *       *

  Beware the bully, of his words beware,
    His triangular lips are a nest of lies,
  For he never did dare and he never will dare,
    To bang a boy of his size.



MILLER, C. H. (Joaquin)

(_The Poet of the Sierras_)


_Complete Poetical Works_

_In One Volume_

  This volume completes the life work of this “Sweet Singer by
  the Sunset Sea.” In it are included all the best poems formerly
  published under the following titles: “Songs of the Sierras”--“Songs
  of Sunland”--“Songs of Summerlands”--“Songs of Italy”--“Songs of
  the Mexican Seas”--“Classic Shades”--“Songs of the Soul”--“Olive
  Leaves”--“Joaquin,” and others. The book contains 330 pages of double
  column matter, printed from new type on laid paper. Each of the
  longer poems is followed by extensive foot notes written by the poet
  himself, also a most interesting, reminiscent preface and appendix
  narrating incidents and scenes in his eventful life, never published
  before. It has several illustrations showing the poet at different
  ages, also a beautiful scene from his present home on “The Hights.”

                                                                  PRICE.
  Beautifully Bound in Silk Cloth, side and back stamp
    in gilt, gilt top                                              $2 50
  Gift Edition, bound in three-quarter Levant                       4 50
  Limited Autograph Edition, bound in full Morocco                  7 50


WHAT TWO GREAT POPULAR POETS SAY:

  Edwin Arnold recently said: “Joaquin Miller is one of the two
  greatest American poets.”

  James Whitcomb Riley said of Joaquin Miller’s singing: “It is the
  truest American voice that has yet thrilled the echoes of our wild,
  free land, and awakened the admiration and acclaim of the Old World.
  No marvel that our Country is proud of this proud child of hers,
  who in all lands has sung her dawning glory and his own changeless
  loyalty to her.”


_Songs of the Soul_

  This volume contains this well known poet’s latest, and as pronounced
  by all critics, best poetic productions. The longest poem, entitled
  “Sappho and Phaon,” occupies seventy-three pages of the book, and
  is destined to become a classic. Besides this there are several of
  his older and most popular poems, such as “Columbus,” “Passing of
  Tennyson,” “Sunset and Dawn at San Diego,” etc., making a 12 mo.
  volume of 163 pages, with author’s latest portrait.

                                                                  PRICE.
  Bound in Fine Silk Cloth, design on cover, Library Edition       $1 00
  Author’s Autograph Gift Edition, bound in full padded Leather     3 50
  Paper Edition, printed in Gilt                                      25

  “If Joaquin Miller had written nothing else, this one poem (Sappho
  and Phaon) would make a place for him among immortals.”--_The Wave._

  The _Critic_, in a recent article, places him among the world’s
  greatest poets.

  The _London Athenæum_ gives “Columbus” first place among all the
  poems written by Americans as to power, workmanship and feeling.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

  The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber for the
    convenience of the reader and is granted to the public domain.




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