Ballads of the War :: :: University of Virginia Library

My hands are knotted, my face is scarred,
My heart for a human heart is tough,
For a mounted policeman's life is hard,
And the ways of the veldt and the vaal are rough.

But I cried like a child a week ago,
And felt as weak as a boy again,
For tears that had long forgotten to flow,
Came tumbling down on my hand like rain.

It was after the battle,—I found a man
Propped on his arm: he was breathing fast:
I knew by the way the red blood ran,
And the sweat of his brow, that he could not last.

But I put my foot on his rifle sure,
For a serpent scotched will sometimes turn,
And a snake in the grass is a wounded Boer,
As all who fight in the veldt may learn.

And he raised his head and he gave a groan,
And he said, “My friend, too late! farewell!
Look to the others, leave me alone,
But where is the boy at my side when I fell.”

So I searched the wreck of the ghastly pile
God meant for life, by the shattered gun,
And I saw in the midst a face with a smile
Set fast by Death,—I had found his son.

I wiped the stain of blood from his face,
That boy at his side when the father fell,
And the cry of pity, the fierce embrace
Of dead with the dying, I scarce may tell.

“Ah; God be praised! we shall meet so soon!
For the old veldt farm it was good you died!”
Then his head sunk back in the last long swoon.
And father and son stood side by side.

Note.—This incident was described in a letter from one of the bearer companies' men after a battle:—

“We were out looking after the wounded at night, when the fight was over, when I came across an old, white-bearded Boer. He was lying behind a bit of rock supporting himself on his elbows. I was a bit wary of the old fellow at first. Some of these wounded Boers, we've found, are snakes in the grass. You go up to them with the best intentions. and the next thing you know is that the man you were going to succour is blazing at you with his gun.

“So,” the letter goes on, “I kept my eye on the old chap. But when I got near I saw that he was too far gone to raise his rifle. He was gasping hard for breath, and I saw he was not long for this world. He motioned to me that he wanted to speak, and I bent over him. He asked me to go and find his son—a boy of thirteen who had been fighting by his side when he fell.

“Well, I did as he asked me,” continues the writer, “and under a heap of wounded I found the poor lad, stone dead, and I carried him back to his father. Well, you know I'm not a chicken-hearted sort of a fellow. I have seen a bit of fighting in my time, and that sort of thing knocks all the soft out of a chap.

“But,” this correspondent confesses, “I had to turn away when the old Boer saw his dead lad. He hugged the body to him and moaned over it, and carried on in a way that fetched a big lump in my throat. Until that very moment I never thought how horrible war is. I never wanted to see another shot fired. And when I looked round again the old Boer was dead, clasping the cold hand of his dead boy.”