# A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/Rip van Winkle

THE SALT OF THE EARTH.
The Jews, as every one admits, Are all you say, Rabinowitz: The noblest and the best of races, Whose kindly hearts belie their faces. They've made in music, art, and letters The nations of the world their debtors; Who can deny it, when they own A Heine and a Mendelssohn; Or, in the realm of thought and prose, a Colossal genius like Spinoza; Nay—proudest boast of all their nation— Freemantle as a blood relation?
Then in the Law their work we see: The Sabbath and the I.D.B.; In politics, who greater than Their Beaconsfield or Lieberman? They'd give the warlike Togo tips In floating mines and sinking ships; In fact, there are not any flies Upon their business enterprise.
All this, my dear Rabinowitz, The world, as I have said, admits; In metaphor to state their worth, "The salt," I'll call them, "of the earth." Of this same salt I'd like to tell A useful little parable.
​In Scotland, as you know,—or should,— Where porridge is the staple food, They "sup them"—vide Scott or Galt— With no concomitant but salt. (The Southron, poor, misguided soul, Puts sugar in his porridge bowl.) Well, the good people of my tale, Who lived on porridge, scones, and kail, Had but one maid to wait and cook— A slattern, grimy as the "crook"; A "fushionless" and "feckless" creature, Without one grace of mind or feature.
Now, one "braw morn" the lass forgot "Tae pit the sawt intil the pot." In consequence, the breakfast-table Was turned into a Tower of Babel ; The "big anes" "girned," the "wee anes" "grat," The "guid-wife" tasted "them" and "spat," And (this sad fact I state with pain) The "guidman" "took his name in vain!"
Next morning, going to the byre, The farmer passed the kitchen fire; He saw the porridge on the crook, The salt-box in the chimney-nook (The servant lassie wasn't nigh, She'd gone outside to milk the "kye"). "I'll hae no cause again to sin," He said, and dropped a handful in. The farmer's daughter next came through— She dropped a little salt in too; ​The farmer's wife, the farmer's son, These also did as those had done; Lastly, the servant-girl came back— "I'll teach them I can parritch mak'!" With her left hand the salt she shook, And in her right the "spurtle" took.
The lassie brought the porridge "ben" With conscious rectitude, and then, With folded hands and pious face, The farmer rose and said the grace, Next tucked a napkin 'neath his chin, And all were ready to begin. ······ What followed next I will not state, It is too painful to relate; But this they all agreed upon: That too much salt is worse than none.
"Rip van Winkle."
AN OCEAN EREMITE.
To Captain Voss, bravest of mariners, who sailed round the world in a boat compared to which the galleons of Ithaca were towering ships.
Brave Captain, you have sailed away, And now you rest upon the billows— As unconcerned, I've heard you say, As we who sleep upon our pillows. Beneath your feet the shark may swim, While overhead the petrel screeches, You care no more than Dr. Jim For Burton's or Molteno's speeches.
You heed not though the thunder peals, The lightning's flash, you do not worry— No more the tranquil Doctor feels The ignominious snarls of Currey; The rain may hiss, the billows crash— You slumber, just like him unwitting When Cronwright Schreiner's balderdash Streams down upon the midnight sitting.
I wonder, Captain, why you chose To bid farewell to ease and pleasure, The snug fireside, the soft repose— All that your fellow-mortals treasure? Was it misfortune's icy breath That gave you first the inclination? And did you brave a liquid death Because you dreaded liquidation?
​Or was it unrequited love, And did she jilt you for another? Or murmur, gently as a dove, "I look upon you as a brother"? Or are you married to a wife Whose tongue and temper drove you frantic, And made you seek a quiet life Amid the storms of the Atlantic?
Or happiness perhaps you find Rests on a philosophic basis, And think, with stoics, that the mind The sum of human life embraces, And all the joys that men surround Are hostages to fortune given; So, like Diogenes, you found A tub is all you need to live in.
Ah! tranquil hermit of the sea— A change of wind your only sorrow, A gale your only enemy; No wife to spend, nor friend to borrow; The waves your only "bull and bear," And reckonings your only losses;— What wonder that you do not care For life's poor game of noughts and crosses?
"Rip van Winkle."
HOLY JAMIE'S PRAYER.
(With apologies to the shade of Burns.)
O Lord, Thou'st gi'en me gear an' gold; Wherever I hae bocht an' sold Thou'st heapit profits manifold: To Thee the glory! So twa three maitters I mak' bold To lay afore Ye.
Thou kenst I'm piously inclined; That gift o' land Thou'lt ca' to mind— I've got the contract a'most signed To big a store (Virtue and profit are combined) Just by the door.
Twa vessels o' Thy chosen nation Have aye enjoyed Thine approbation (The ither Jamie is a caution! He dings us a'); Thou'st raised us to our lofty station, We dinna craw.
Canty and croose we pu'd thegither, Workin' as brither works wi' brither, ​We even trusted one anither— Or verra near; To help oorsels ilk helped the tither, An' didna spier.
An' a' oor doin's, wrang or right, Have aye fand favour in Thy sight: Noo I'm a laird an' he's a knight. But still a drappie Add to my cup, for I'm no quite Completely happy.
Thou kenst I'm noo an M.L.C.,
I signed the pledge, an' I agree The Bible reprobates a lee; But after a', Sic a sma' thing 'twixt You an' me Is nocht ava!
I canna' thole the Doctor's way, He treats me as inferior clay; He'll neither daff wi' me nor play A game o' cartes: O Lord, confound and blast, I pray, His takin' arts!
Forbye, they didna' treat me fair: That railway business fashed me sair, An' the Excise on drink was mair Than I could stan'— Thou kenst I had a muckle store O' dop on han'.
​The Party I wud like to wreck, An' wring the sneering Doctor's neck. Guide me, I pray, to this effec', Is my petition, An' troth, I'll gie a thumpin' cheque Tae Kirk or Mission!
"Rip van Winkle."
A MUSEUM IDYLL.
Reader, when you've wandered o'er The dim Museum's cumbered floor, And seen the grim and ghastly shapes, As skeletons of men and apes, Scorpions' tails and serpents' skins; Nightmare beetles stuck on pins; Stalactites and fossils all Ranged in cases on the wall; Corals, sponges, and the weeds The silent floor of ocean breeds; And the reptiles of the prime That floundered in creation's slime;
Bushmen's skulls and meteorites, And all such weird and uncouth sights— Have you never longed to see Some relic of Humanity— Something that would bring to mind The form and vesture of Mankind, Something with the bloom and scent Of sweet human sentiment? Seek, then, the doorway where one sees "Colonial Antiquities." There the cabinets and walls Sparkle with antique bocals, Dresden shepherdesses fair, Old blue Delft and priceless ware Brought by Dutch East Indiaman From the ports of old Japan.
​Diaz's croziered pillar there Stands by wicked Van Noodt's chair, And the plate that graced his board Is guarded by Van Riebeck's sword. Near, an old bronze Buddhist bell Graven with an Eastern spell— With its Mane padme om; Near, a Chinese ivory comb; Near, an idol grinning white Cased in ocean stalactite, Which has suffered a sea-change Into something rich and strange; Near, a grim, terrific god; Near, a teapot with an odd Chinese dragon trailing round Golden folds on copper ground. There's a tiny English shoe Of Morocco, cream and blue, Made with all a cobbler's skill By "Sam Miller in Cornhill." Nothing more the legend says; But I, in love with bygone days, Look until I hear it tell (Like a murmur in a shell) Many a story quaint and sweet Of the lady fair whose feet Twinkled with a charm divine Beneath her ample crinoline, Making her tortured lovers dream That heaven itself was blue and cream.
As down the Heerengracht she went Each hat was doffed, each head was bent; ​Envied the slave who held the red Umbrella o'er her queenly head! Envied the mastiff on whose back One fair and slender hand lay slack! Even the Fiscal pressed his hat With fervour 'gainst his laced cravat, And swept the pavement with a bow Before the lovely Jonge-vrouw.
When Swellengrebel gave a ball, He led her foremost down the hall; Her lightest word or look was law At picnic or at Wapenschaw; In church, distracted beaux gave scant Attention to the Predikant, But read their sermon in the smile That shone like sunshine down the aisle;
And once at least upon the lawn Beneath the Castle walls at dawn Hard breathing men with sword to sword Tramped a circle on the sward, Athirst to make a rival feel The cruel chastisement of steel.
But now, I prithee, tell me, Muse, How came she to wear English shoes?
An English ship one summer day Let fall her anchor in the Bay, Answered the Castle gun for gun— The Walpole or the Addison, Laden with sandalwood and spice, And other goodly merchandize. ​Ah! how the crew praised God to see The welcome green of grass and tree; And, oh, how pleasant was the sight Of shady streets and houses white!
A boat was manned, and brought a score Or so of invalids ashore; With fever pale, with scurvy black, Or yellow with the Yellow Jack. Some went where by the old canal Stood Van der Stel's sick hospital; But one, of gentle birth and mien, Was by the lady's father seen, And lodged and nursed a month or so Within their house in Bromner's Row. (Old English travellers agree To praise Cape hospitality.) She nourished him with jellies fine, Custards and rich Constantia wine; And when he went to take the air, She used to walk beside his chair.
He told her stories of the East, Of savage man and savage beast; Of palms that waved o'er coral isles, And rivers full of crocodiles; Of marble tombs with gems inwrought, And sacrificial Juggernaut; Of jewelled Begums and Bashaws, Rodgers, Nabobs, and Sabberdaws; Of pirate Angria and the fray 'Twixt Great Mogul and Grand Sedey; ​Of Hindoo widows burnt alive, And how he'd fought the French with Clive; He watched her cheek go red and pale— The light and shadow of his tale— And on her eyelid shining clear The crystal candour of a tear.
Ah, gentle reader, need I tell The story that you know so well— Of tender looks and stifled sighs, Of ardent vows and soft replies? It is, I think, enough to say They loved as lovers love to-day, And in the way of lovers swore That no one ever loved before. For centuries may come and go, But Love and Youth are always so. Nor need I rend your hearts to tell The passion of their sad farewell. But he, a moment to beguile The April sunshine of a smile, Asked for her choice 'twixt hat and gown, A gift to bring from London Town; And she, although her cheeks were wet, Was in a moment all coquette— "Your English fashions would, I fear, But ill become my homely sphere; Besides, you know not how to choose; Bring me instead a pair of shoes."
With leaden feet the days passed o'er The maid who watched upon the shore; ​A piteous calendar, her cheeks Grew paler with the passing weeks. Her father marked the absent mood, The tears, the pensive attitude; And with affection's swift surmise He guessed the reason of her sighs, And tried to lock the stable door (As parents oft had done before). "A husband," to himself he said, "Will drive this nonsense from her head." But which fond suitor should he bless? 'Twas an embarras de richesse 'Twixt Van de Merwe, Jacques Theron, The Captain of the Garrison, Petrus de Witt, or Van Breda, Or Cloete of Constantia. And then the Fiscal—fat and old— What matter? he had power and gold, A farmstead bowered in oak and vine, The fairest in the Drakenstein; Coffers of dollars and doubloons, Gold mohurs, pagodas, ducatoons; And in his cupboards, stored away, The priceless treasures of Cathay.
Straight to the Fiscal's house he went, Nor paused to ask the girl's consent; Arranged the match without delay, Drew up the deeds and named the day. In vain the tears that fell like rain— The prayers, the protests all in vain. The Fiscal forced a loathed caress With elephantine playfulness. ​'Twas now a twelvemonth since the day
Her English lover sailed away,
And 'neath the garden oaks, forlorn,
A week before the wedding morn,
She sat—a book upon her knee— Alone in pensive reverie.
The menace of the old bridegroom
Was dreadful as an open tomb.
It yawned so imminently near,
Poor dove, she sickened with the fear!
"My heart has called so loud," she said,
"He must come if he be not dead!"
A sudden step—a look—a cry— " Tis thou!" and, with a kiss, " Tis I!"
"See, I have brought thy English shoes!
Said'st thou I knew not how to choose?
These for thy feet—this golden band
Will grace the whiteness of thy hand!"
From Signal Hill to Wittebloem,
From Kirstenbosch to Roodebloem,
With cannon, bugle, bell and horn,
They ushered in the wedding morn.
The Fiscal went with stately stride
To wish good-morrow to his bride;
But he was greeted with a groan— Alack! alack! the bird had flown.
Far out beneath a cloud of sail,
A ship bowed to the favouring gale. ​They heard above the ocean swell,
Ring faint but clear a wedding bell.
And where the boat put off they found
A tiny shoe upon the ground.
As scent of faded rose-leaves dead
With dreams of summer fills the head,
As the faint murmurs in a shell
Of green foam-crested surges tell,
So this forgotten little shoe
Told me the tale I've told to you.
"Rip van Winkle."