Copper Dust and Other Gleamings

From Great North Road

A book of poems published in approximately 1968

by

HARRY FARRELL

47, Sixth Street,

CHINGOLA,

Northern Rhodesia.

© 1968

Bundu Beasts

WOUNDED LEOPARD.

I know you’re lurking somewhere near me,

You lovely, lithe and lethal thing.

Eyes see, nose scents and sharp ears hear me;

Your body, tense prepares to spring.

Tough luck my snap-shot didn’t kill you;

But spotted speed is hard to see.

Now, thoughts of hate and vengeance fill you –

Henceforth it’s either you or me.

Your blood spoor leads where bush is thicker,

A perfect ambut for your lurk.

Spring now, hurt Cat! Let’s see what’s quicker –

Your slashing claws, my trigger’s jerk?

Betray your presence by the rustle

Of grass or fern or dislodged leaf.

Stretch out to ease an aching muscle.

Move, Chui, move! Death is so brief!

I see your spotted garment clearly,

I note your markings, once by one.

I’ll aim just there. By God! I nearly

Shot leaflet shadows in the sun!

Are you in front, are you behind me?

Do you observe each inch I creep?

Will I find you before you find me?

Will camouflage conceal your leap?

The setting sun is slowly sending

The shifting shadows leapards love.

Ah, your mistake! That branch is bending –

Your long-planned spring comes from above!

Our of the tree Your Vengeance flashes

With blazing eyes and unsheathed claws.

Swiftly up-thrust, the Mauser crashes,

Muzzle between your eager jaws.

Your lovely, vicious, now-dead beauty,

I only hope your mind can see

That, shooting you, it was my duty

To kill – or make it ‘you or me’.

THE HUNTER

I stalk and hunt the mammoth of the bush,

Yet, though I slay him, ‘tis against my will,

But man must work to earn the right to live.

This is my fate; to live, I have to kill.

ELEPHANT

Just around the corner, where the tick birds circle low.

Just around the dambo you can hear their trumpets blow.

You can hear their bellies rumble as they satisfy their thirsts –

Just around the corner, but you’ve got to find them first.

LION

High in the tree the hunter waits

Above the tethered goat,

His only bait the clearing from

It’s trembling, baa-ing throat.

Two stealthy shapes slink from the grass,

The monarch and his mate.

A sudden rush, a slashing paw

Decides the victim’s fate.

The rifle cracks, the big cat falls,

His mate slink off unseen.

The message through the bundu spreads,

“The King is dead, long live the Queen”.

NIGHT IN THE BUSH

My solace is the camp fire,

The embers burning bright.

My music, the cacophony

Of creatures of the night:

The twittering of nightjars,

The hooting of an owl,

The yapping of the jackal,

The lion’s far off growl.

I do not miss the wireless,

The theatre or T.V. –

I have my entertainment.

The Bush supplies it – free!

CROCODILE

You made the deer. You made the sleek gazelle.

You made the antelope, the gentle sheep as well.

You made the monkey with his secret, naughty smile.

But why, please God – Oh, why the crocodile?

You are creator of the Jungle King of Beasts.

You made the useful vulture, you organised his feasts.

You made the clumsy hippo, who wallows in the Nile,

But why, please God – Oh, why the crocodile?

You made the bulky elephant, the leopard and gnu.

You made the horses, cattle, goats. The dog belongs to you.

You made the thing that lurks, all sinister and vile –

But why, please God - Oh why the crocodile?

Peace

A PLACE ON THE RIVER

There’s a place on the river where kingfishers play,

Close by to the sandbank where crocodiles stay.

There’s a family of otters cavorting with glee.

And an ancient fish eagle asleep on his tree.

Flotillas of pigmy geese swimming in line,

A school of grey monkeys aswing on a vine.

At this place on the river the spurwings fly low,

Then drift for a while on the current’s swift flow.

A covey of partridges whirrs through the grass,

And a leguan blinks at their flight as they pass.

There’s a find modern township a few miles away,

But that place on the river’s where I choose to stay.

SONG OF THE NORTH

Away up north of the great Zambezi,

Just south of the Congo’s borderline,

Where the swallows are migrating,

And the spurwinged geese are mating,

There’s a hustling, bustling, modern copper mine.

Deep in the heart of the copper country,

That deathless ‘bundu’ land in the raw,

Where the power-plant fires keep burning,

And the headgear wheels keep turning,

There’s a ceaseless, peaceless fight for precious ore.

Wild beasts fled from the White Man’s progress.

The Black Man came for the White Man’s pay.

Now electric lights are shining,

There are turbines softly whining

In a shirling, swirling artificial day.

Remote and far from a seaside’s pleasures,

Swallowed deep in the jungle’s maw,

There oft comes a sudden yearning,

A desire inside you, burning

To see foaming, combing breakers on a shore.

The frantic urge that there’s no denying

Then sucks you down to the restless sea,

To the wild white horses fighting,

And the barracuda biting,

To the wheeling, squealing gulls cacophony.

But the brain responds to a stranger call,

And the heart to a fiercer yearn

When you see the leave-days mounting,

And you find you’re mutely counting

Off the dragging, lagging days of your return.

Then at last, you can sing your northbound song,

With the click of the wheels your metronome.

When you hear them swiftly swishing.

And they’re saying what you’re wishing –

For they’re pinging, swinging, ringing, singing

“Nchanga! That’s home!”

DRY SEASON

Relentless in his blazing heat, the scorching sun burns on,

Creating drought and dust and sweat where e’er his rays have shone,

Our throats are parched our tempers frayed,

The heat torments us unallayed.

We curse the heat, we blast the sun, we rant and rave in vain,

After weary months we please, “Oh, please God, send the rain!”

WET SEASON

Rain-pregnant clouds swell overhead then viciously give birth

To roaring, pouring watery floods to saturate the earth

The gardens flood, the gutters swell,

The skies spew forth their wrath to Hell.

We curse the clouds, we blast the rain and wince as rivers run,

Then bodies, spirits drenched, we pray, “Oh, please God, send the sun!”

LADIES OF THE LAKE

You will see them on the lakeshore when the moon is on the water,

As they comb their hair and manicure their nails.

They’re the Lake Nyasa Mermaid and her little mermaid daughter,

And you’ll hear them sweetly singing, beating rhythm with their tails.

You’ll hear them singing louder when the bigger breakers thunder,

You’ll hear them murmur in the wind, sweet harmony it seems.

You’ll see them in their beauty, their mystery and their wonder,

But, alas! You’ll see them only in your dreams.

THE STORM

You feel it in the atmosphere, you hear it in the trees,

You smell it in the gusts of each approaching little breeze.

You feel the air is cooler now, before, it was so warm.

You see the dark clouds drawing near. There’s going to be a storm.

You see the flash of lightning, then its thunder rumbles by.

You see the darkness of the clouds obliterate the sky.

You hear the drone of heavy raindrops coming from the east.

Relentless as a swarm of locusts speeding to a feast.

You hear the scattered patter as the vanguard raindrops fall,

Then you see the rain advancing in a solid, flooding wall.

The lightning brings the thunder and the thunder brings the rain,

And it’s music sent from Heaven played on your windowpane.

The eager earth is grateful to relieve its urgent thirst.

The grass, the trees, the flowers, all acclaim the floodgates burst.

But suddenly, it’s passed and gone and things revert to norm.

And all is clean and pur and sweet, and grateful to the storm.

DHOWS ACROSS THE LAKE

Hazy specs on dim horizon,

Slowly, vaguely taking shape;

Loosely-straggled freak armada

Rolling tiredly round the cape.

Wraith-like hulks now looming clearer,

Cast-off junk from alien shore,

Weary spectres drifting nearer,

Ugly-contoured aft and fore.

Murky details now appearing.

Ragged sail and spume-flecked mast,

Variegated, much-patched canvas,

Flotsam salvaged from the past.

Decks awash with tumbled litter,

Livestock, chickens and kids and cows,

Intermingled crew and cargo,

Carnival from stern to bows.

Faint at first, then swelling louder,

Moaning lower, shrieking higher,

Shoreward borne on fitful breezes

Drifts and discord of their choir.

Slapping shrouds and tortured timbers,

Straining spars and cursing crew,

Swell the clamour of the bedlam

Spice the strength of Neptune’s brew.

Shades of Pharaoh’s human freighters,

Spawn of ancient Egypt’s fleet,

Weaned between a Sphinx’s forepaws,

Suckled at a slave ship’s teat.

What are they, these gross intruders,

Rapists of the modern scene?

Bursting through our peaceful curtain

From the shores of Sheba’s queen.

Bear with them, condone their brashness,

Ask them not; they can’t explain.

Ancient ones relive their history,

Dhows have crossed the Lake again.

Dhows are, and ever have been

Since their forebears left their wake.

As the stars still cross their heaven,

So the Dhows still cross their Lake.

DUSK TO DAWN

The gum trees draw their cooling shadow-curtains

In silence o’er the sleepy, patient lawn.

Quietness quickens, darkness thickens;

‘Tis then the bullfrog’s nightly serenade is born.

Unfailingly this vocal reptile’s nocturne,

Disrupts the silence with deep-throated surge.

Baritonic, metronomic,

In solemn praise or pliant to some nostalgic urge.

Then drowsily the timid ringdove grumbles,

“Shush you, shush” and woos the night for sleep,

Snugly resting, sweetly resting,

Then slumber through the noisy vigil bullfrogs keep.

When dawn’s first traces stain the new days ceiling,

Then muted, muffled, stilled becomes the bull-frogs call,

Ring-doves stirring, grey wings whirring

To fill the day with cooing ‘till night again shall fall.

Again the gum trees draw their shadow-curtains,

Reminding bull-frogs that it’s time that they awoke

To call – but soft – for high aloft

The ring-doves must have rest, though rowdy bullfrogs croak.

PAEAN OF PAIN

If you should strive to analyze each one of Nature’s forces

Cut deep, probe far, dissect, investigate, then probe again

To trace the strongest, fiercest driven stream through all Life’s courses,

You’d find that every faith you treasured bows low to Him called Pain.

The trusts, beliefs, ideals on which your groping life depended

Seen now but mocking, fey illusions long prized by you in vain

Your cherished hopes, ambitions, aims so diligently tended

Are crushed and squeezed away to Limbo by this vast thing called Pain.

The allied might of Hate and Fear and Greed and all things rotten,

The awful strength of Love and pure Devotion fused perfectly of twain

The best of Hod, the worst of Bad are instantly forgotten

In just one single-handed onslaught by Him, the God of Pain.

Though you should soar to highest Joy or sink to base Pollution,

Against Pain’s grip your utmost, bravest stand can never bear the strain,

‘Til beaten, spent, exhausted, you accept the grim solution

And so thankfully you welcome Death, and sole conqueror of Pain.

War

DUNKIRK

They gathered in their thousands on the shore,

Beneath the pall of smoke that fouled the skies.

Three hundred thousand wearied men and more,

They scanned the empty sea with anxious eyes.

For each man knew that from this sea of storm,

Whose distant water lapped the shores of home,

Relief would come (they knew not in what form)

But yet they knew that somehow it would come.

And so, they fortified themselves to wait,

Content to know that which is, must be,

That Britain would not leave them to their fate,

As long as British ships could sail the sea.

From out the reeling sky the Stukas swept,

And flying low, they raked the teeming beach

Where men shook empty guns aloft, and wept

With rage, and cursed above the engines’ screech.

And so on, until night, when darkness fell,

With restless sleep beside a restless sea,

The dawn, to face another day of hell,

Of hope and grief and cruel uncertainty.

But now the Channel lay unruffled and serene.

The waters calm and placid in the dawn.

And on the skyline tiny specks were seen.

And anxious hearts beat high with hope reborn.

Was this the long-awaited Fleet at last,

With Naval transports sped to their relief?

Men wiped their straining eyes and stared aghast,

Then shook their heads in hopeful disbelief.

Then, when they saw, and not a doubt remained,

They waded out to sea with sobbing cheers,

In single files until their leaders strained

Neck, deep, to form a hundred human piers.

Here came, not Britain’s gallant mercantile,

Here came, not Britain’s grand and mighty fleet,

Here came the British People rank and file

From hearth and home, from shop and city street.

They came from every different walk of life;

A stately yacht, a sloop, a tramp, a yawl;

Some crawled, some cut the water like a knife,

But one and all, they came at Dunkirk’s call.

And calmly, facing fire from air and shore,

They filled their tiny holds and decks with men,

And only when each craft could hold no more,

Did they set sail for home, and only then.

And still they came, this mixed and motley fleet

Of tugs and trawlers, tubs and ferry boats,

While some towed strings of dinghies, small and neat,

And some towed rafts and clumsy jetty floats!

But to those wading queues of patient men

It was the fairest sight God ever made,

They swore that He had calmed the seas for them.

And ghosts of Drake and Nelson lent their aid.

Thus was the brave relief of black Dunkirk,

And this the answer, when the whole world asks,

“But what of those who undertook this work?”

“They simply went back to their daily tasks!”

Could people such as these admit defeat?

No! Not as long as they could still draw breath!

They sought their comrades with a homemade fleet,

And snatched them from the very jaws of Death.

CAPE BON

The desert’s war-made roads, were strewn

With wrecks of Rommel’s host;

A fleeing, fighting armoured horde,

Hell-bent to reach the coast.

And often though their rear-guard paused

To check the fierce pursuit,

That terror-stricken flight swept on

Along the coastal route.

For news had flown on wishful wings

That, when they reached Cape Bon,

Their remnants would be reinforced

That they might carry on.

And hold their driving foes at bay,

While Hitler’s transport steamed

Close in to shore to embark troops.

Thus, their relief was schemed.

And allied bombers spewed their wrath

Upon the fleeing ranks,

And took their toll in shattered guns,

In amoured cars and tanks.

But when they reached that out-flung Cape

Their hoped-for sanctuary,

And sought those promised Axis ships

With keen expectancy.

They realised that Allied strength

In air, on sea, on land,

Had quickly taken measure of

The German High Command.

At sea their convoys, Tunis-bound,

Had met the allied fleet,

And smoking, shattered wrecks proclaimed

The sum of their defeat.

A bloated corpse, some flotsam spars

Were all that reached the shore,

Mute tokens of the fury of

The Allied men-of-war.

While overhead, like high-geared death,

Our war-birds screeched on high,

Where Fokker-Wulfe and Messerschmidt

Were blasted from the sky.

Still “Monty's desert crew” surged on

To hem the Cape Bon flats,

Where Nazis and Italian foes

Fought back like cornered rats.

Free French, South African and Greek,

Imperial and “Yank”

Moved up to be in at the kill

With, gun, grenade and tank.

Through choking smoke and blinding sand

They flung their hymn of hate,

‘Till Axis guts could stand no more,

And cried “Capitulate!”

Two hundred thousand living men

Surrendered midst their slain:

A mighty stride towards that day

When Peace would once more reign.

“A second Dunkirk” was the plan

The Axis reckoned on.

“A second Waterloo” perhaps

Would best describe Cape Bon.

FLIGHT AT DUSK

I heard their engines long before they came in sight,

A throbbing, rhythmic drone of speed and power,

Symbolic threat of Britain’s outraged Might,

A vengeful wave of planes at twilight’s hour.

I watched their swift approach against the evening sky,

Their headlong flight a rushing, pointed wedge,

They thundered nearer, passed and hurtled by,

To disappear below the desert’s edge.

I watched another flight approaching from the Nile,

But heard no sound to mar the evening’s peace.

The same formation, wedge-shaped, double file;

Amazed, I realised that they were geese!

In silent splendour, never losing form,

Their very shape, a God-sent prophecy,

They flew, a feathered V through War’s wild storm,

A lovely living sign of Victory.

IN HEAVEN, AS IT IS ON EARTH.

Let there be fun and games in Heaven

For the youth who died too soon.

Let there be laughter, fun and even

Young, amorous girls and ragtime tune.

Let there be beer in foaming tankards

And wine and song and ribald mirth.

Give them great feasts and sumptuous banquets:

The things they will have missed on earth;

For, dying young, they’ve missed these pleasures,

The harmless fruits of carefree youth,

Gay memories that old age treasures,

Then dim of eye and long of tooth.

Give them not harps nor mystic trumpets:

Youth has no use for angel choirs.

They surely must be angel strumpets,

Who perished in blitzed London’s fires.

It can’t be that, forever after.

They live in calm, quiet, bore-full bliss,

Devoid of lusty fun and laughter.

No, God! They did not die for this!

A BROKEN IDYLL

I saw the sun’s first streamers stain the sky

Across the dreaming waters of the bay.

I heard the first bird’s sleepy, waking cry,

And watched the last star wink its life away.

A newborn zephyr stirred the fronded palms,

Then gaily chased the only cloud in sight,

While brazen orchids swayed to flaunt their charms

Before the new dawn’s tapestries of light.

And, as the sun’s smile blessed this lovely place,

This earthly paradise of peaceful bliss,

An early swallow skimmed the water’s face,

And touched it’s fleeting image with a kiss.

In silent awe I knelt on dew-cooled sands,

A humble worshipper at Nature’s shrine.

Anointed by the breeze’s spray-wet hands,

I paid my tribute to a thing divine.

And then, from out the water’s placid calm

There heaved a deadly shape, a thing unclean;

A menace of destruction, death and harm,

A slimy, block-Swastika’d submarine.

Just what I did or said, I cannot tell;

Perhaps my brain became confused and odd;

But there, upon my knees, my soul in Hell,

I think I blasphemed in the face of God.

McNAIR

McNair was my odd-job gardener,

Who worked for me for his keep;

Capacity nil for hard labour,

But one hundred per cent for sleep.

I inspected his work in the garden

The place was a damned disgrace!

There lay McNair, with the wind in his hair,

Asleep, with the sun in his face.

I took him up north as my Batman –

He wouldn’t be left behind –

He lay down to sleep under gunfire

In the first open place he could find.

He was wounded and posted as missing,

And they sought him all over the place;

There lay McNair, with the wind in his hair,

Asleep, with the sun in his face.

The hospital ward was his prison;

He pined for his blessed fresh air,

His bed was found empty but bloodstained,

So I headed the search for McNair.

Where the river sands shine in the sunlight,

Where the willow leaves ripple like lace,

There lay McNair, with the wind in his hair,

Dead, with the sun in his face.

HOSPITAL REVEILLE

Night seems quietest just before the dawn.

In those small wee hours when pain is swept away,

Calm heralds of a new day to be born,

Sweet slumbers rout the cares of yesterday.

The patients, in their quiet bliss, sleep on;

The silence of the ward arrests the night;

When, like the crack of doom, the bliss is gone;

The peace is shattered by a vicious light.

Now all is chaos, grumbling, discontent;

The placid ward now seems to roll and rock,

Can it be true that decent folk were meant

Daily to be sent to Hell at five o’clock?

HOSPITAL PHAPSODY

A cry comes fiercely, harshly, blood red, cat-like through the night.

As another shriveled, wrinkled thing leaves darkness for the light.

And there’s silent bustling, washing, bleeding, the cutting of a cord,

With the sweetly, sickly scent of ether wafting through the ward.

There’s a drink-besodden skeleton keeps shrieking “rats” and “ants”,

While a bored old hard-faced Sister idly flicks them off his pants.

There’s a youngster coughing blood and puking, haggard drawn and grey,

‘Til the mercy of the needle sends oblivion his way.

What’s that sniveling, whimpering, shrinking thing in number Twenty-three?

Oh! That’s a lad whose leg we took off just above the knee.

Tough luck? Well, I don’t know – he’s bought it! He shouldn’t grumble much.

Why, his other leg is perfect – and he’ll get a lovely crutch!

There’s a gasping, wheezing, panting “lunger”, fighting for his breath,

While waiting, watching, by his bedside stands a gentleman called Death.

And when the final rattle brings a night-nurse to his side

He’ll just be another hunk of morgue-meat awaiting its last ride.

What is this dreaded terror that the wretched patients fear?

The rise in temperatures and deaths when Christmas time is here?

Neglect and festive carelessness?

Well, what else can you think,

With nurses off on party dates

The doctors stiff with drink?

Release us from these drab, white walls, dry rot, bedsores, decay;

And hypodermics, scalpels, forceps, bedpans, take away,

With the atmosphere of health impaired, and the sick room’s eerie smell!

Don’t let us rot in Hospital –

We’d sooner rot in HELL!

THE TELEGRAM

I dreamed last night that he was killed,

Each detail stark and clear,

I saw the flash. I heard the crash,

Then wakened, sick with fear.

I’ve told myself a thousand times

That dreams are but a sham.

I’ve stilled my fears and dried my tears,

And now – this telegram!

It lies unopened on the desk,

A harbinger of dread.

Hid from my eyes, its message lies –

I know it says he’s dead!

Confirming that malignant dream

And blasting every thought

Of future life as man and wife,

The happiness we sought.

God, give me strength to tear it up –

Or give me strength to read.

Nay! Strike me dead, the thing unread –

‘T were better thus, indeed!

But wait! I am a soldier’s wife,

Like many thousands more,

Who, husbands gone, still carry on

To win this ruthless war.

This is the cross that I must bear,

The furrow I must plough;

And I must start to do my part.

I’ll read the message now!

My heart and brain grow strong to stand

The shock they will receive.

But this is odd. Oh! Thank you, God!

He’s coming home on leave!

BUT WHY!

Though the morning is cold, our hearts are warm,

For we know we’ll be airborne soon.

Today’s the day! Home’s not far away –

We’ll be there this afternoon.

“Well, it seems like our prayers have been answered,”

Johnny says, as he ties his glove.

“That Padre, our west sure knew what was best

When he said, “Trust the Man above!”

A lot of them’d laughed at Johnny and me

When we said our prayers each night.

Were our faces red when they jeered and said,

“Did you come to pray – or to fight?”

But we didn’t much mind the things they said;

Our prayers seemed to do the trick.

We’ve fought our fight and we’re still all right,

And we’ve taken the thin with the thick.

The Dakota’s engines are warming up.

“Sweet music!” says Johnny, “Let’s go!”

“Just one farewell shove from the Man above –

And thanks for his help through the show!”

As we take our seats in the throbbing plane

Lips are moving in silent song,

From “A wing and a prayer” to “Sarie Marais”

And “I hope that nothing goes wrong!”

Now the ground staff give us the take-off sign;

The chocks are withdrawn. We’re away!

There’s a slight, grim bump, then a lurching jump,

And I see Johnny’s face turn grey.

“We’ll never make it!” he shrieks, with a curse.

(It’s the first time I’ve heard him swear.)

Then I twist him round as our wheels leave ground

Saying, “Johnny! Remember our prayer.”

You mustn’t forget we’ve always pulled through,

The prayers that we’ve said He had heard,

We gave Him our trust. He’s kind and just.

He’ll never go back on His ------------“

ARMISTICE DAY

The eleventh of November is a day that I remember.

I happened to be born upon that day.

And I notice, every year, hosts of poppies yet appear

In people’s button-hole to show that they

And their children still remember that gay day in November

When two mighty nations cast their arms away.

So, when poppies are in season, I rejoice for double reason:

It’s my birthday and it’s still Armistice Day.

REQUIEM

How shall we grieve? That is to say,

What fashion shall our grieving take?

Shall it be tears, or crepe, or black array

Of mourning for their memory’s sake?

Where shall we weep when teardrops urge

This outlet to our pent-up pain?

Whose right to see emotions surge

Then dwindle, as we pray in vain?

We must believe that they who died,

Who gave their lives that this dear earth

Should live in peace again and purified,

Died gladly for their sacrifice’s worth.

<br clear="all" Turn back the page and think of them

As youthful, eager gods again,

And smile again, as they would have us smile,

To let them know their deaths were not in vain.

Politics

REVELATION

After careful contemplation

Of the general situation

With regard to population;

Benefits of immigration

For the welfare of a nation;

Giving due consideration

To a possible inflation

To be viewed with consternation

By a future generation,

With its hopes of sane deflation,

Better wages, less taxation;

And a racial segregation

In respect of pigmentation

To avoid contamination,

Stagnation and damnation;

Now, with close collaboration,

Without fear of degradation,

With no qualm of trepidation

Re our final destination,

But with mutual jubilation,

We’ve arrived at FEDERATION!

NIGHT SHIFT

There’s some thing I’d like to say

To the chaps that work by day

About the chaps that have to work at night.

Though you’re worrying like stink,

Just you pause awhile and think

Of the night shift man, who’s in a sadder plight.

When your working day is through,

And you’re having one or two

At the pub before you toddle home to bed,

As you sip your beer or port,

Just spare a tender thought

For the man on shift who’s wishing he were dead.

In the smoke and stink and sound

He is working underground,

And every minute risks his blasted life,

When all the time he knows

There’s a day shift guy who goes

Around and spends the evening with his wife.

If you’re looking for a job

Though you haven’t got a bob,

With pangs of hunger gnawing at your guts,

If they offer work at night,

Tell them straight and quite polite,

They can put it where the monkey puts his nuts!

TEN-AND-EIGHT

They ask for better wages, for better jobs and such.

They feel that they’re entitled to a slightly higher rate.

We ask them what they’re striking for. They answer, “Nothing much –

Advancement and equality and only ten-and-eight!”

They feel that they’re entitled to exist as Europeans,

To drive around in Jaguars and eat off silver plate;

To toe the line as equals and to live as men of means;

And all that they’re demanding is a measly ten-and-eight!

A bicycle, a radio, the price of Congo whores

Are necessities whose payment cannot wait.

The price of copper fluctuates, the cost of living soars,

So the answer to their problem is an extra ten-and-eight.

The picannins are hungry and the mothers are distressed.

As they sit and wonder hopelessly how long they’ll have to wait,

The fathers know it’s hopeless, since they’ve put it to the test,

And they realise they’ll never get their stupid ten-and-eight.

“LO STRIKE”

Lo Union Chela tina, “Wena hamba lapa Strike,

Wena bamba mushi Increase, wena tenga New-one Bike.

Wena shala lapa compound, sibenza bye-and-bye,

Wena shala puza twala, wena shala bepa gwaai.”

Mina asi yena manga, ikona mushi so.

Zeko lo sibenza, mningi mubi lo;

Lo mali yena pela, na so izeko skof,

Mushi tina niga lo Union lo “Brush Off”.

Lo piccanin kamina yena kala lapa kia,

Umfazi kala zonke skat, “Maningi wia wai.”

Lo Strike ikona mushi, chupa kupela lo,

Penduka zonke lapa Mine, yena mushi so.

TALLY!

We’ve got to keep that tally up, so come on, chaps, don’t linger,

Let’s show them we can do our stuff. We can, if we ‘pull finger’!

We’ll get that precious copper up. We’ll keep our home fires burning.

We’ll live the same, we’ll eat the same, while headgear wheels are turning.

While some we know will try to live on mushrooms and kasava,

Until they realise, at last, that they’ve slipped on their guava.

TREK VINGER!

Kom kerels, nou is die tyd on seker volk te leer;

Al wil hul staak die werk gaan ann, en vorentoe sal ons beur.

So, kom ons stoot produksie op, vermeerder elke dag,

En wys dis beter om te werk, dan tuis te bly en wag.

Pleasure

PARDON ME, Mr. KIPLING

If you can save your cash and curb the urge to spend it,

If you can lay off cigarettes, cigars and smelly pope;

If you can keep a worn-out shirt because you still can mend it

And say you don’t like parties, because you’re not the type.

If you can break the habit of that pleasant sundown whisky,

If you can fight against the need for healthy fun and games;

Or not take part in outdoor sports because they’re far too risky,

Nor tell some risqué stores that contain some naughty names.

If you can fight against the lure of women’s witchery,

And say that in romance and love there isn’t any fun;

If you can stay inviolate to their enticing bitchery –

You’ll be a bloody fool, my son!

A MEMORY

The book was new; it’s cover bright.

It’s title held a sweet appeal.

It promised hours of pure delight,

Could I the contents but reveal.

I bore it off with beating heart,

My pulses quick with ecstasy.

It’s knowledge it would soon impart

To quench my fires of urgency.

In solitude I lay, at length,

The book and I alone at last.

It’s very touch endowed strength

To trembling hands which held it fast.

The cover once again, I scanned,

And somehow sensed it’s mood was sad,

This book that seemed to understand

My need, and offered all it had.

I turned the cover slowly o’er

And drank the foreword’s beauty in,

It’s meaning clear; it’s treasures more

Than I had ever hoped to win.

The author’s note was sweet and brief,

Perused with but a hasty look –

Yet still I sensed that feel of grief

And sorrow coming from my book.

The preface only now remained

And tenderly it suffered me

To grasp the message it contained

Of baffled hope and misery.

I tore it back in disbelief,

My horror fighting ‘gainst my need,

And realised with sudden grief

‘Twas not my lot this book to read.

My chapter bared reviled and stung.

My passions seemed to snap and swoon.

‘Twas written in no earthly tongue –

But in the language of the Moon.

NOEL

Already the streets of Nchanga are strewn

With the Yule logs that lorries let fall.

The Christmas bees shrill out their old piecing tune

To convey peace and goodwill to all.

Guy Spires, Malcolm Inglis, Stot Wardle et al

Are reducing as fast as they can

To fit into chimneys that seem mighty small

For the bulk of the Santa Clause man.

It may be that fashions for Santas will change

To the Neil Wilkie, Bill Evans kin.

Their appearance at first would be frightening, strange –

But with toys, the kiddies won’t mind!

But, however, if Santas are skinny or stout;

If our bonus rates increase or fall;

We’re certain of spreading the good cheer about.

A Happy Christmas and New Year to all.

I MET A GIRL

I met a girl in Gay Paree

Who said, “Monsieur, come home with me,

There’s a cosy room and the drinks are free.”

But I said, “Another time, maybe.”

For I’d heard of the girls in Gay Paree.

I met a girl in Leningrad

Whose mouth was sweet, whose smile was sad,

And she said. “Come up and meet my dad.”

But I said, “I’m not that kind of lad.”

As I’d heard of the girls of Leningrad.

I met a girl in Baltimore

Who called to me from her bathroom door

To pick up the soap she’d dropped on the floor

But I said, “I’ve heard that one before,

And I’ve heard of the girls in Baltimore!”

I met a girl in Mandalay

Who asked me round to spend the day,

But I think she meant to spend my pay,

And besides, I didn’t feel that way,

As I’d heard of the girls in Mandalay.

I met a girl on a South Sea Isle

And the only thing she wore was a smile,

So that when she asked me to stay a while,

I grabbed my hat and ran a mile,

For I’d heard of the girls on a South Sea Isle.

I met a girl in Paradise,

With large grey eyes as shy as mice.

She was everything pure and good and nice,

So I married her on my heart’s advice,

For I’d dreamed of a girl in Paradise.

REMEMBER

Remember, old sweetheart, the first time I kissed you

Upon the cool mountains so dear to your heart?

Remember, you told me how Cupid had missed you

Until you and I were transfixed by his dart?

Remember, old sweetheart, the first time I felt you

Were part of my soul that I’d sought for so long?

Remember, you called me the ace Fate had dealt you,

The one card you needed to make your suite strong?

Remember, old sweetheart, the first time I took you

To visit the scenes of my foolish-spent youth?

Remember how simply old ideals forsook you,

And left you bewildered, ‘twixt fancy and truth?

A LITTLE PIECE OF LIFE

If you’ve never heard a love song that made the teardrops start,

If you’ve never paused to marvel at some lovely work of art,

If you’ve never felt a baby’s finger tugging at your heart,

A little piece of life has passed you by.

If you’ve never had to watch beside an old dog as he dies

And never seen the look of love and worship in his glazing eyes;

If you’ve never seen a blinded airman looking at the skies

A little piece of life has passed you by.

If you’ve never held a fortune while you’ve hungered for a crust,

If you’ve never tasted victory, yet felt humbler than the dust,

If you’ve never told a harmless lie to keep a sacred trust,

A little piece of life has passed you by.

COFFEE

Coffee in the evening when

The stars begin to shine;

The daily chores are over,

I am yours and you are mine.

Everything is ended and it’s

Time to go to sleep;

So, let’s drink our cup of coffee

With a memory that will keep.

MAN’S BEST FRIEND

He’ll be waiting on the doorstep

With a greeting just for you.

His tail will make you welcome –

And his happy barking too.

Never hurt, nor yet neglect him.

Spoil the dog and spare the rod –

And repay his trust with kindness,

For remember, you’re his God.

PRIZE FIGHT

There’s a sudden hush round the rope-edged square,

A gasp from the crowded hall;

Then a smothered sob from the fight-keen mob

As it sees the champion fall.

For he’s taking a beating few men can endure

With the courage few men live to see,

And the vast crowd is mute in unconscious tribute

To the spirit of men such as he.

Then a murmur runs through the smoke-blued air

As the fighter strives to stand,

As the seconds mount in the fatal count

From the referee’s falling hand.

But he stands at last on his shaking legs

And evades the count of ten,

With his eyes so bright with the will to fight

That it warms the hearts of men.

For life has wrought few nobler sights

To stage for men or gods,

Than a head unbowed with a heart uncowed

In the face of fearful odds.

Just an aching mass of tortured flesh,

And he’s far behind on points,

But he holds reserve supplies of nerve

To control his pain-wracked joints.

He meets his foe’s determined rush

With bleeding lips compressed,

And is on his toes as the kind gong goes

For that blessed minute’s rest.

Then a fleeting smile appears for a while

On the battered, bloody face,

As his seconds strive to keep alive

His strength to stand the pace.

But it’s not on strength alone that he wins

In that final, grueling heat,

As the referee stands with upraised hand

And his foe lies prone at his feet.

It’s a fighting heart and the will to win

To uphold a hard-earned name.

To retain a crown and the world’s renown

As a champ in the Ring’s grand game.

From the world’s dim past to the end of time

Shall the wars of mankind wage,

‘Til the bloody fire of a nation’s ire

Is quenched in hate and rage.

But as long as lives in the hearts of men

The lure of the eight-ounce glove.

There’ll be battles fought of a different sort,

Fights that are founded on love.

Love of the Game with the proudest name,

And clean as God’s pure air,

Where strong arms wield on a battlefield

That’s a sixteen-foot roped square.

Where friend fights friend to the bitter end,

And names go down in Fame.

Where a man’s at his best in the glorious test

Of fighting, yet playing the Game.

YOU CAN’T WIN

The Pools paid out seventy thousand.

I missed it for want of two bob!

Will you pass me the strychnine, Darling?

This coffee won’t do the job!

I staked all I owned on four aces,

But one of the boys called my bluff.

May I borrow your six-shooter, Johnny?

One bullet will be quite enough!

They told me he’d win in a canter –

The ‘Certainty” stumbled and fell.

I’ll sharpen my rusty old ‘cut-throat’

I’ve got an appointment in Hell!

She married me just for my money –

With her, there’s no give but all take.

She’s left me. I haven’t a sausage –

I hope this old clothesline won’t break.

‘FISH-TAIL’

We were spinning our yarns at the Fisherman’s Arms,

And the years, like the drinks, were tall;

For in the fisherman’s chatter the truth doesn’t matter,

It’s the story that counts, after all.

Old Timothy Smale had just finished a tale

Of a salmon as big as you’d wish,

And when young Danny Hopper said “Gee, what a whopper!”

He referred, without doubt, to the fish.

The old man who dozed in the corner arose

And said, “I remember, one day – “

So we passed him the brandy – he had his glass handy –

And he started his story this way:

“I was spending the day by a Rocky Coast bay,

Where the seas was as smooth as a lawn.

It looked dandy for fishing, which was what I’d been wishing,

So I baited my hook with a prawn.

For in Rocky Coast bays, they say prawns are the craze –

A regular fishes’ delight;

But although I sat waiting and often re-baiting

There was never a sign of a bite.

I had given up hope and was starting to mope

And curse the bad luck that was mine

When I felt the cord tightening and knew, quick as lightening,

That I’d got something big on my line.

I let off such a should as my line straightened out

And laughed just to see the thing run.

Then I stood up and battled, while my rod and reel rattled

In a fight that was second to none.

I puffed and perspired ‘til the poor fish grew tired,

Then I reeled it straight in for the sands

But the thing that broke water was somebody’s daughter

With a fishing line gripped in her hands!

So, exhausted and weak, with my hook in her cheek

And the salt water tears in her eyes,

She came mournfully shoreward, while backwards and forwards

The cliff wall re-echoed her cries.

Then, as I drew her near, I said, “Quietly, my dear.

I won’t hurt you. There’s no need to wail!”

She clambered beside me and, may Heaven guide me,

Instead of two legs she’d a tail!

I just threw down my rod, shouting, “Mermaid, by God!

And a naked one, too – without doubt!”

But she startled me badly by whimpering sadly,

“Oh, p lease take this horrid hook out!”

My hands fairly shook as I took out that hook,

Averting my gaze all the while.

And I made bold to say, “Dear – you might wear a brassiere!

You see, I’m not used to your style.”

“I’m, thinking,” said she, “that as you’ve captured me,

You’ll have to put up with the view.

But you wouldn’t have caught me, if Ma hadn’t taught me

To love prawns as much as I do!

For they’re not to be found the whole season round –

It’s a pity, because they’re so sweet.

But I see you’ve got plenty.” Said she, taking twenty

Or more, and beginning to eat.

For the rest of the day, by that Rocky Coast bay

We chatted and basked in the sun.

And as I ate my luncheon, she just kept on munchin’

And finished those prawns – every one.

Then she said, “I must go, for the sun’s getting low

And my old people worry like Hell –

So, it’s good-bye, my hearty – and thanks for the party!”

And she swallow dived into a swell.

Thus, the tale that was told by the fisherman old.

Then he tiredly remarked, through his yawns.

“That’s the first fish I’ve landed that left me all stranded

By helping itself to my prawns.”

Then we filled up his glass, for it so came to pass

That his yearn left our heads in a whirl.

And we felt it our duty to say, “That’s a beauty!”

Referring, of course, to the girl!

BULL’S EYE

I have played about with shotgun, twenty-twos and three-o-threes,

Shot crocodiles in river and pigeons out of trees.

I’ve won a cup at Bisley for the most impressive score –

And shot a Flying Saucer, which has not been done before.

I’ve putted with a Piat and I’ve strutted with a Sten.

I’ve shot the Scottish Highlands, killed the Monarch of the Glen.

I thought no one could touch me in this tough ballistic art,

When a little chap named Cupid shot me cleanly through the heart!

THREE MOMENTS

When you address a brand-new ball,

Then swing the way you should,

And hear and feel the sweet impact

Of rubber meeting wood,

Then look to see your sphere of white

Departing true and straight in flight,

That’s a moment when you feel that life is good!

When first you feel that big one bite-

That growing tautness of your line,

And when you strike with all your might

And tell yourself, “He’s mine! He’s mine!”

When, after half an hour or more

You’ve got him, gasping on the shore,

That’s a moment when you feel that life is fine!

With just two more minutes to play,

And frenzied cheering from the stand,

Two points behind, you’re on your way –

You dive beneath the fullback’s hand.

It’s now, the plays knows, as the final whistle blows –

It’s a moment when you feel that life is grand!

STEADY, GIRLS, STEADY!

Remember, dear ladies, and take it to heart.

That good target shooting is really an art.

Close grouping, right timing, each shot straight and true

Bring thrills of relief and sweet pleasure to you.

We all have our ‘off-days’ with uncertain aim –

But what the Hell, girls – it’s a real smashing game.

These hints will prove useful to each one of you –

With your big three-o-three, or your little two—two.

Harry Farrell © 1960

Contributed by Sue Coughlan

Copied by Sue Coughlan because original no longer available