Protesgedigte uit Engelse Oorlog

[Adri van Staden]

'n Seldsame eksemplaar van 'n bundel protesgedigte uit die sg. Anglo-Boere-oorlog wat gedigte van verskeie digters uit daardie tyd bevat, wat in 1902 per skip uit Londen in Kaapstad aangekom het, maar deur die Britse owerheid vernietig is, is herontdek en uitgegee. Die titel is Songs of the Veld and Other Poems. Die gedigte wat wel afsonderlik na die buiteland gesmokkel is gedurende die oorlog, het geweldig baie daartoe bygedra dat die buitewêreld simpatie met die Boerevolk gehad het. "Dit is aangrypende digkuns - uniek in dié opsig dat die Empire daarmee skroeiend aangeval word. Die pen is magtiger as die swaard" lui 'n sin uit die bekendstellingspamflet.
Die bundel is nou weer uitgegee en kan bestel word teen R250 per eksemplaar. Dit is 'n hardeband publikasie op glanspapier. Vir meer besonderhede: mvanbaart@dieburger.com.

(Ns. Ek verjaar een van die dae! )

[Plaas Botha]

(Ns. Ek verjaar een van die dae!  )

Ek wonder waar het ek die volgende gelees:


"Weer iets van Langenhoven: 'n Skimp kan seerder maak as 'n skop"

[Elmien Drent]

"Weer iets van Langenhoven: 'n Skimp kan seerder maak as 'n skop"

He he he!

Party van ons waardeer tog 'n skimp, want dit is bitter moeilik om vir sommiges verjaardaggeskenke te koop!

[Adri van Staden]

(Ns. Ek verjaar een van die dae!  )

Ek wonder waar het ek die volgende gelees:


"Weer iets van Langenhoven: 'n Skimp kan seerder maak as 'n skop"

Soms werk skimpe nie, dan moet jy maar skop(k)! 

[Kleinbekkie]

Ten minste het een van Oomdoom se afstammelinge hierdie skoppende skimp gevang 

[Adri van Staden]

Daar is 'n verskil tussen 'n skimp en 'n wenk! 'n Skimp werk selde, 'n wenk dikwels. Die wenk is opgevolg en ek het die boek as geskenk ontvang.

Gedag ek sal so ietsie daaruit met julle deel:
IN SOUTH AFRICA
It has not been the use of British men
to war with children. See you not, my Lords,
my Lord and Commons, how these figures read
to every man who is not blinded by
the lust of conquest and the gleam of gold?
Is this the England ye have vaunted of,
which lead the world to liberty and right,
whose laws dealt equal justice unto each,
whose very flag gave freedom to the slave -
a symbol of their brightness, fullest hopes
to the oppressed and wronged, a safe retreat
to hunted patriots, saying unto kings
and tyrants in their wrath, "Ye strike not here:
beneath the folds is refuge unto all"?
Can this be England, driving from their homes
woman and children, making of sheltering walls
fire blackened ruin, rooting out the crops,
killing the cattle, burning fruitful farms
and villages, and leaving in her trek
a wilderness? Can this be England?
O, 'tis thus the savage, mad with homicide,
drunken with human blood, exterminates
all that his arm can reach - man, woman, child -
until a hostile tribe is blotted out.
Beware! Beware! Such wrongs pass not unseen
by the clear eye of God: each deed writes down,
in the dread judgement book, a darker fate,
and a more terrible punishment to come.

[Adri van Staden]

AN OUTRAGED RACE
Ye say the Boers are "shy as thrice-driven grouse":
For shame! for shame! A year ago, we read,
not thrice, but twenty times how they drove you,
when equal numbers left you fairly matched.
Oh, coward-boasting o'er a fallen foe!
Strive not, by sporting metaphors, to make
a brutal jest of bloody homicide;
but do your work in silence, if ye must,
being soldiers, and obedient to command;
and count not souls that pass as slaughtered game:
these be not beasts ye "drive" to death, but men,
an outraged race, outnumbered ten to one,
which yet, for country, justice, liberty,
fight to extinction, putting fath in God
Reprinted from "Springfield (Massachusetts) Republican"

[André Strydom]

AN OUTRAGED RACE
Ye say the Boers are "shy as thrice-driven grouse":
For shame! for shame! A year ago, we read,
not thrice, but twenty times how they drove you,
when equal numbers left you fairly matched.
Oh, coward-boasting o'er a fallen foe!
Strive not, by sporting metaphors, to make
a brutal jest of bloody homicide;
but do your work in silence, if ye must,
being soldiers, and obedient to command;
and count not souls that pass as slaughtered game:
these be not beasts ye "drive" to death, but men,
an outraged race, outnumbered ten to one,
which yet, for country, justice, liberty,
fight to extinction, putting fath in God
Reprinted from "Springfield (Massachusetts) Republican"

Pragtig en baie waar!

[Adri van Staden]

Vir oulaas 'n ware tranetrekker.

THE LOST CHILDREN
In the death-camp sat a woman,
young in years but old in care;
while gaunt Sorrow, with swift fingers,
bound with grey her flowing hair:
There she crouched in awful silence,
frozen into grief's dull trance;
gazing, gazing, all unheeding,
at the barren veld's expanse.
Northward, Eastward, Southward, Westward,
flamed the homesteads of her race;
all the horror of their burning
stood refelcted in her face:
But a fiercer, deadlier, anguish
dried her beauty - scorched her brain;
and a mother's heart was bleeding
for her children, - famine-slain.

To her, in her lonely watching,
came the news that peace was made;
forth she burst, in loud upbraiding,
"Peace! ah, peace! - what help or aid
can you give me, since my children
lie bebeath the veld's brown sod?
Can the iron-hearted English
bring them back te me from God?

"It is trtue our ruined homesteads
yet may rise from out the plain;
and our harvests, overflowing,
blush the richer for the slain:
While our race towards freedom marches,
full of faith, and void of fear;
but my children! oh, my children!
Peace is with you! War is here."
S Hancock (June, 1902)

[Adri van Staden]

Ek kielie die draad sodat James die inligting kan kry.

TO A PORTRAIT

In the days of long ago,
When the skies were always blue,
And the winds would whisper low,
Fairyland was near to you;
What a word of wonder lay
in that magic word Suppose!
When we fancied that a fay
haunted every trembling rose!

In the days of long ago
you were Princess Goldenhair,
I your knight, should goblin foe
seek to trap you unaware;
With that tinsel sword of mine
Proudly I allayed your fears,
When I was a lad of nine,
You a lass of seven years!

In the days of long ago,
Just about the summer time,
We would watch the sunset glow,
telling tales - your hand in mine;
But when childhood's days were gone
you became a lady proud;
Other lovers soon outshone
this poor dreamer in the crowd.
                  Arthur Rickett

[James Kemp]

Baie dankie Oom Adri. Ek kan nie wag om die boek in die hande te kry nie.