Jameson's Ride

Wrong! Is it wrong? well, may be; But I'm going, boys, all the same. Do they think me a Burgher's baby, To be scared by a scolding name? They may argue, and prate, and order; Go, tell them to save their breath: Then, over the Transvaal border, And gallop for life or death! Let lawyers and statesmen addle Their pates over points of law: If sound be our sword, and saddle, And gun-gear, who cares one straw? When men of our own blood pray us To ride to their kinsfolk's aid, Not Heaven itself shall stay us From the rescue they call a raid.

There are girls in the gold-reef city, There are mothers and children too! And they cry, "Hurry up! For pity!" So what can a brave man do? If even we win they'll blame us: If we fail, they will howl and hiss. But there's many a man lives famous For daring a wrong like this!

So we forded and galloped forward As hard as our beasts could pelt, First eastward, then trending nor'ward. Eight over the rolling veldt; Till we came to the Burghers lying In a hollow with hill behind, And their bullets came hissing, flying, Like hail on an Arctic wind.

Right sweet is the marksman's rattle, And sweeter the cannon's roar; But 'tis bitterly bad to battle, Beleaguered, and one to four. I can tell you it wasn't a trifle To swarm over Krugersdorp Glen, As they plied us with round and rifle, And ploughed us again — and again.

Then we made for the gold-reef city, Retreating, but not in rout. They had called to us, "Quick! For pity!" And he said, "They will sally out — They will hear us come. Who doubts it?" But how if they don't — what then? "Well, worry no more about it, But fight to the death like men."

Not a soul had supped or slumbered Since the Borderland stream was cleft; But we fought, even more outnumbered, Till we had not a cartridge left. We're not very soft or tender, Or given to weep for woe, But it breaks one to have to render One's sword to the strongest foe.

I suppose we were wrong, were madmen, Still I think at the Judgment Day, When God sifts the good from the bad men, There'll be something more to say. We were wrong, but we aren't half sorry; And as one of the baffled band, I would rather have had that foray Than the crushing of all the Rand.

—Swinford Old Manor, January 9