The Poetical Works of John Payne Definitive Edition in Two Volumes |
 |
 | I. |
| II. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
|
|
|
 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
THE DOPPER'S LAMENT.
PITY the sorrows of a poor
Perpetually harassed Boer,
The victim of a “beau sabreur”,
Who keeps him ever on the stir,
Without a moment to entrench.
I cannot speak, without a wrench,
The ruffian's name; it is such woe
To think, with folk who love us so,
—Who in their cups cry out, “Bravo!
Go on, brave Boers! Do all you know;
Avenge the wrongs of Jean Crapaud
And lay the brutal Britons low,
Those rude Rosbifs who let us crow
And only chuckle when we blow!”
—This pesky, intermeddling foe
Should share the honoured name of “French”.
Perpetually harassed Boer,
The victim of a “beau sabreur”,
Who keeps him ever on the stir,
Without a moment to entrench.
I cannot speak, without a wrench,
The ruffian's name; it is such woe
To think, with folk who love us so,
—Who in their cups cry out, “Bravo!
Go on, brave Boers! Do all you know;
Avenge the wrongs of Jean Crapaud
And lay the brutal Britons low,
323
And only chuckle when we blow!”
—This pesky, intermeddling foe
Should share the honoured name of “French”.
We Doppers love to sleep at night
And (if we must) by day to fight,
Ensconced behind some rocky height
Or sheltered in some cosy trench,
Like any other decent mensch:
But this chap keeps us on the run
From break of day to set of sun,
Gives us no time to sleep or eat
Or take our schnapps of Hollands neat.
(—Washing and change of clothes, indeed,
Your true-born Burgher does not need;
He, like his sires, the Jews of old,
With soap and water does not hold.—)
What's death to us is just his fun:
Our working day is never done;
We get no rest or next to none;
For hardly have we closed an eye
Ere “Rooineks!” our sentries cry;
Putt! Putt! Whiz! Bang! The bullets fly
And “Look out there! Come on! Hi! Hi!
Give 'em the baggonet, my boys!”
And all the other horrid noise
Disturbs our dreams of dunghill joys:
Here comes that everlasting French!
And (if we must) by day to fight,
Ensconced behind some rocky height
Or sheltered in some cosy trench,
Like any other decent mensch:
But this chap keeps us on the run
From break of day to set of sun,
Gives us no time to sleep or eat
Or take our schnapps of Hollands neat.
(—Washing and change of clothes, indeed,
Your true-born Burgher does not need;
He, like his sires, the Jews of old,
With soap and water does not hold.—)
What's death to us is just his fun:
Our working day is never done;
We get no rest or next to none;
For hardly have we closed an eye
Ere “Rooineks!” our sentries cry;
Putt! Putt! Whiz! Bang! The bullets fly
And “Look out there! Come on! Hi! Hi!
Give 'em the baggonet, my boys!”
And all the other horrid noise
Disturbs our dreams of dunghill joys:
Here comes that everlasting French!
No, hang it all! It is too mean
To come upon us, unforeseen,
Just when we're settled all serene.
I'll write and grumble to the Queen
And all the bishops on the bench.
Our brother Stead 'twill never suit
If honest Burghers cannot loot
And Rooineks in comfort shoot,
Ambushed behind some rock or root,
Without a day-and-night “En route!”
From that confounded fellow French.
To come upon us, unforeseen,
Just when we're settled all serene.
I'll write and grumble to the Queen
And all the bishops on the bench.
Our brother Stead 'twill never suit
If honest Burghers cannot loot
324
Ambushed behind some rock or root,
Without a day-and-night “En route!”
From that confounded fellow French.
Well, for a wonder, here's no sign
Of him just now: I'll stop and dine
And after on the veldt recline
And smoke the pipe of peace, in fine.
Then, when I've had a Dopper drench ,
If I can find some quiet trench,
Just forty winks will come in pat.
Good night! I'm off.—But stop! What's that?
I heard a sort of rat-tat-tat.
Yes! No! It must have been the cat.
Lord! There's a shell just where I sat,
And here's a bullet through my hat!
It cannot be! It is, that's flat,
It is that never-ending French.
Of him just now: I'll stop and dine
And after on the veldt recline
And smoke the pipe of peace, in fine.
Then, when I've had a Dopper drench ,
If I can find some quiet trench,
Just forty winks will come in pat.
Good night! I'm off.—But stop! What's that?
I heard a sort of rat-tat-tat.
Yes! No! It must have been the cat.
Lord! There's a shell just where I sat,
And here's a bullet through my hat!
It cannot be! It is, that's flat,
It is that never-ending French.
Nov. 1900.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |