The Smouse

I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse in the wilderness wide--
The veld is my home, and the wagon’s my pride;
The crack of my “voerslag,” shall sound o’er the lea.
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!
I heed not the Governor, I fear not his law,
I care not for ‘civilisation’ (?) one straw--
And ne’er to ‘Ompanda’--‘Umgazis’ I’ll throw,
While my arm carries fist, or my foot bears a toe!
‘Trek,’ ‘trek,’ ply the whip,--touch the fore oxen’s skin,
I’ll warrant we’ll ‘go it’ through thick and through thin--
‘Loop! loop ye oud skellums! ot Vigmaan trek jy.’
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!

They may talk of quick going by mail or by rail--
What matters? our wagon creeps on like a snail;
What to ‘her’ is the steam-engine’s whistle and din?
We have time all before, and the ‘prog’ all within--
The snows of Kathlamba our progress can’t stay;
We mount to its summit, and travel away,
Or go we by Biggarsberg--wagon upset,
The tent lies in atoms, the stuff is all wet--
Never mind, that won’t hurt us--we’ll soon get it dry.
But ho! there go Elands--saddle up, boys! mount! fly!
Load your rifles, give chase as they bound o’er the lea--
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!

I’m alone--I’m alone, and ’tis night on the plain--
And I think, as I lie, of old England again;
The jackal cries round me, the wolf quits his lair,
And the roar of the lion resounds through the air--
‘Alamagtig!’ cries Jansi--‘Ma-wo!’ cries Kewitt;
The cattle stand trembling--the Smouse on his feet.
My ‘Lancaster’ rings, while the brute gives a bound,
And the king of the desert lies dead on the ground!
Hurrah! then, what care I for king or for prince?
My horse and my gun are my pride and defence;
The town for the coward--the desert for me!
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!