THE RHYME OF THE OX-WAGON. (A MODEST PENDANT TO PRINGLE’S “AFAR IN THE DESERT.”)

Away with the cynic, who ceaselessly sighs For some new-fangled bauble—some novel surprise Give me the heart that with generous glow Lights up the friendships of long long ago. Green be the mem’ries of pleasure gone by, When youth filled the cup, and no care breathed a sigh. Fain would I weave into light-tripping rhyme The frolicsome joys of the good olden time, Ere our evergreen forests and still wilds were scared By the ear-piercing screech of the Railway Dragon And a thousand long miles were triumphantly dared ’Neath the cosy white tent of a good Ox-wagon How jocund the shout of the old driver, Jan, With his grimy felt hat, and his jacket of tan. The crack of his whip waking echoes around, While the startled bush-buck clears the path with a bound. As the tall forest trees bend their heads ’neath the breeze, So our team breasts the steep with a labouring wheeze; Then down the long slope in a sinuous race, They scamper along at a bullock’s best pace; Wo-haa! shouts the driver. Wo-haa! for the sake Of the small Tottie leader with scarcely a rag on, Who capers and hoots, gamely striving to break The headlong descent of the good Ox-wagon. How grateful the halt near the bush-margined stream, Where “uitspanned,” our hungry and sweltering team Lave their hot dusty hoofs, and with heads bending low, Drink the nectar that Adam imbibed long ago. Old Jan and the Tot gather sticks for a fire, To prepare the hot coffee (what liquor ranks higher?), And the lush “carbonatje,” whose tender delight To the palate still clings, though you’ve dainties in sight; With biscuits and “biltong” we finish our feast— (Perhaps we may take a small sip from the flagon)— Then join in the chase of a runaway beast Who freedom prefers to the good Ox-wagon. The “inspanning” finished, Jack shoulders his rifle; His longing for venison all gentle thoughts stifle. Peeping Bob is intent upon catching things horrid; While Bill, who confesses to sympathies florid, Gathers trophies galore of old Cape’s blossomed splendour, While a grateful thought leaps to the bountiful Sender. Such our innocent joys while our caravan rumbles At three miles an hour, to the trysting at “Bumble’s.” Fain would I tell of our jollity there, But time gently warns me to tackle the drag on, So I leave you to picture our sumptuous fare While we drank, “Happy days with a good Ox-wagon.” Well! what have we gained by our steaming hot hurry, But time-tables, tariffs, debts, drivings, and worry? We’ve dropped half an hour by a trick that looks dirty: Old five o’clock reads as the modern “four-thirty.” On a “sliding scale” lately we’ve slid fast enough, Though the “ways” of that slide have been terribly rough. Dame Fortune has stripped many a home of its charms, Devoured our profits, and mortgaged our farms. Our wool, wine, and wisdom are not in “high feather;” But up with the whip-stick! Bend Hope’s sunny flag on; “Give a long pull, a strong pull, a pull altogether,” And cheers shall yet ring from the old Cape wagon. William Selwyn. Port Elizabeth, 20th March 1886.