'England sends her grabbers, From far across the sea, To rob you of your friends and home, Likewise your liberty.'
'When we came to this country, 'Twas but a barren plain; But the honest hand of labour Was rewarded for its pain. We found the precious metal, And of it we have great store; But Britain came to rob us As she often done before. As she thought to do before, As she thought to do before; But Britain comes to rob us, As she often done before.'
'Those Boers can't be blamed, as you might understand; They are trying to free their own native land, Where they toil night and day by the sweat of their brow, Like the farmers in Ireland that follow the plough. Farewell to Old Ireland, we are now going away, To fight the brave Boers in South Africa; To fight those poor farmers we are not inclined: God be with you, Old Ireland, we are leaving behind.'
Some verses--'The Boer's Prayer'--that I have not seen on a ballad-sheet, but in a weekly paper, give better expression to this feeling of farmer sympathy:--
'My back is to the wall; Lo! here I stand. O Lord, whate'er befall, I love this land!
'This land that I have tilled, This land is mine; Would, Lord, that Thou hadst willed, This heart were Thine!
'This land to us Thou gave In days of old; They seek to make a grave Or field of gold!
'To us, O Lord, Thy hand, Put forth to save! Give us, O Lord, this land Or give a grave!'
'Hark! to the curses ringing From all smitten lands; In sob and wail, they tell the tale Of England's blood-red hands.
'And wheresoe'er her standard flings Forth its folds of shame, A people's cries to heaven arise For vengeance on her name!'
But for passionate expression, one cannot, as I have already said, look to the comparatively new and artificial English ballad form; one must go to the Irish, with its long tradition. Here is a poem, 'The Curse of the Boers on England,' which I have translated literally from the Irish:--
'O God, we call to Thee, This hour and this day, Look down on this England That has come down in our midst.
'O God, we call to Thee, This day and this hour, Look down on England, And her cold, cold heart.
'It is she was a Queen, A Queen without sorrow; But we will take from her, Quietly, her Crown.