A selection of Rhodesian Verse
The Silent Sentinel
by E.H.K. Turkington
.
Rhodesia ! Land of Sunshine,
Wild, beautiful, and free,
What land the wide world over
Can e’er compare with thee.
.
Far back in the dusk of ages
Unheeded and unknown,
Then came the Empire Builder
And claimed thee for his own.
.
Honour to Rhodes the Founder,
And honour the men who died
In writing a page of history
To which we point with pride.
.
A Sentinel, strong but silent,
In bronze on a plinth of stone,
He stands – the Mighty Founder
Majestic and alone.
.
The Spirit of Rhodes the Dauntless,
Still holds us in his sway,
And points through the mist and darkness
To the dawn of a brighter day.
.
‘Tis the Empire calling:
“Rhodesians, take your stand,
Remember you are Britons
And Sons of the Motherland.”
.
First published in the Rhodesia Annual 1914-15 (Special War Number)
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“Mimosa”
A Call to the Rhodesian Veld
by Violet Wilson
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“MIMOSA, Lady, Mimosa,” I heard the urchin cry:
“Mimosa, Lady, Mimosa, here’s a nice bunch to buy.”
I looked at the golden blossom, and leaning down, I smelt –
I forgot the drab streets of London; I saw the African veld.
.
Gone was the bustle around me; I stood on the veld instead,
Grey skies vanished before me; blue skies were overhead.
The thick fog lifted around me, plainly I could see,
On the bank of the Matjesumshlope, a golden mimosa tree.
.
I clutched at my bunch of flowers, homesick I rushed away,
And the longing for my homeland haunted the dreary day.
So “Goodbye,” drab streets of London, I’m going where skies are blue:
Oh, Rhodesia, and Mimosa, I’m coming home to you!
.
First published in 1929
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My Baby Bobbejaan
by “T”.
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A little baby bobbejaan was up a great big tree
A-clinging to his mother just as tight as tight could be;
She leapt with him from branch to branch, as far as I could see
The little baby bobbejaan was terrified of me.
.
One day the mother bobbejaan went to the river’s brink
With all the other bobbejaans to have a cooling drink;
His mother and his father and his uncles too, I think,
And the little baby bobbejaan with tiny tongue of pink.
.
They stooped to drink the water from an inlet still and calmed –
A crack among the undergrowth – they all sprang up alarmed,
For creeping up towards them was a native fully armed
Who speared the mother bobbejaan – the babe he left unharmed.
.
Then the forest rang with barking as away the others leapt
And the little baby bobbejaan – he stayed behind and wept
And he clung on to his mother for he thought she only slept,
And close against the shaggy fur the little baby crept.
.
And the native kicked the mother as he pulled away his spear
And the little baby bobbejaan was whimpering with fear
And the native caught the baby and brought it to me here
And the little baby bobbejaan – he bit the native’s ear !
.
So I bought the baby bobbejaan and hugged him to me tight,
For his little heart was beating with the terror of his fright
And I fed him with some bread and milk and kept him snug at night,
Oh, a little baby bobbejaan’s a most pathetic sight!
.
And just at first he barked at me and whimpered too and cried,
But soon forgot he’d ever had a mother that had died;
And now when he is frightened he rushes to my side,
And when he knows he’s naughty he’ll run away and hide.
.
So now my baby bobbejaan’s as happy as can be,
He leaps upon the pictures as he would upon a tree;
He never wants to leave me, and plainly I can see
My little baby bobbejaan loves nobody but me..
Illustrations by Diana Mallet-Veale
First published in 1938
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Ballad of the B.M.R. *
by Cullen Gouldsbury
Down in the land where the heathens are,
Down in the swamps where white men stew,
Amid the woods that stretch afar,
Amid the creepers dank with dew
The Line runs out – perchance, askew,
And drunkenly designed – but ah !
In days gone by was work to do
Upon the lonely B.M.R. !
.
The Gates of Death were held ajar –
The pegs that mark the mileage too
Have stood for tombstones – near and far
Ghosts of a grimy, shrivelled crew,
The sun looked down from out the blue –
Out of the night looked down the star,
And marked where men had drifted through
The death-trap of the B.M.R.
.
Each bolt, each nut, each metal bar,
Could tell a story – grim but true –
And where the gangers’ houses are
Maybe are ghosts of dead men too –
Ghosts of the men who worked and knew –
The fever-swamp, the sickening jar
That came when life was rusted through.
Upon the lonely B.M.R.
.
L’ENVOI
Lo ! – we may scoff – we often do –
And jest at engine, truck, and car –
But – must we then forget the few
Who made for us the B.M.R.?
.
* Beira & Mashonaland & Rhodesia Railways.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“A Rhodesian National Anthem”
by Helen Orient Pagan
(submitted to a Rhodesian Eisteddfod in the early 1920s as a possible anthem)
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God bless, God keep our land,
When foes against us stand,
Do Thou with righteous Hand
Our strength maintain.
.
God bless each heart, each home,
In town, and veldtland lone,
And those in wilds unknown,
Protect, sustain.
.
Lest we should tend in vain,
Our herds, our flocks, our grain
Send Thou in season rain,
With bounteous Hand.
.
Bless with Thy love, and fear,
Statesman, and pioneer;
Draw Thou in mercy near,
Our chosen land.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Voices of Rhodesia
by Mary Bloom
Rise, O voices of Rhodesia,
God may we Thy bounty share.
Give us strength to face all danger,
And where challenge is, to dare.
Guide us, Lord, to wise decision,
Ever of Thy grace aware,
Oh, let our hearts beat bravely always
For this land within Thy care.
Rise, O voices of Rhodesia,
Bringing her your proud acclaim,
Grandly echoing through the mountains,
Rolling over the far flung plain.
Roaring in the mighty rivers,
Joining in one grand refrain,
Ascending to the sunlit heavens,
Telling of her honoured name.
.
The above words were adopted as Rhodesia’s National Anthem played to the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
The vocal version of the anthem was played every night at the close down of RBC TV usually at about 11pm.
You can listen to my own recording of one these broadcasts. If you copy this file for use elsewhere please kindly acknowledge the source. Thank you.
.
Washing Day
by Diana Mallet-Veale
It’s washing day today – I see mfazis passing by,
Each one bearing on her head a bundle piled high;
Listen to their chatter and their laughter loud and gay –
Without a doubt they thoroughly enjoy a washing day.
.
To the back of each of them a baby’s tied
Other bigger piccanins are trotting by their side –
All are making for the river where the sunlight flashes,
And over boulders smooth and grey the sparkling water splashes.
.
There they soap and rub and scrub, thumping on the rocks
Brightly coloured limbos, shirts and vests and frocks:
Quite contents sits piccanin, basking in the sun,
Waiting till his garment dries – he only boasts the one!
.
How the youngsters love it – in the water cool,
Scrambling over boulders or wading in a pool;
When, washing done, they’re leisurely returning to the kraal
‘Tis plain to see it’s been a happy day for one and all.
.
First published in 1935