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Best Famous Boer Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Boer poems. This is a select list of the best famous Boer poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Boer poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of boer poems.

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Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The English Flag

 Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack,
remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately
when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts,
and seemed to see significance in the incident. -- DAILY PAPERS.


Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro --
And what should they know of England who only England know? --
The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag,
They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag!

Must we borrow a clout from the Boer -- to plaster anew with dirt?
An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt?
We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share.
What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare!

The North Wind blew: -- "From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go;
I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe;
By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God,
And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.

"I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame,
Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came;
I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast,
And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.

"The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night,
The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light:
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare,
Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!"

The South Wind sighed: -- "From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en
Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,
Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon
Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.

"Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,
I waked the palms to laughter -- I tossed the scud in the breeze --
Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,
But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.

"I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn;
I have chased it north to the Lizard -- ribboned and rolled and torn;
I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea;
I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.

"My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,
Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross.
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare,
Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!"

The East Wind roared: -- "From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come,
And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home.
Look -- look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon
I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!

"The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before,
I raped your richest roadstead -- I plundered Singapore!
I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose,
And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.

"Never the lotus closes, never the wild-fowl wake,
But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake --
Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid --
Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.

"The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows,
The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows.
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare,
Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!"

The West Wind called: -- "In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly
That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die.
They make my might their porter, they make my house their path,
Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath.

"I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole,
They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll,
For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath,
And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.

"But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day,
I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away,
First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky,
Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.

"The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it -- the frozen dews have kissed --
The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare,
Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!"


Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

End Of The World

 When I was young in school in Switzerland, about the time of the Boer War,
We used to take it for known that the human race
Would last the earth out, not dying till the planet died. I wrote a schoolboy poem
About the last man walking in stoic dignity along the dead shore
Of the last sea, alone, alone, alone, remembering all
His racial past. But now I don't think so. They'll die faceless in flocks,
And the earth flourish long after mankind is out.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Now Listen to Me and Ill Tell You My Views

 Now listen to me and I'll tell you my views concerning the African war, 
And the man who upholds any different views, the same is a ritten Pro-Boer! 
(Though I'm getting a little bit doubtful myself, as it drags on week after week: 
But it's better not ask any questions at all -- let us silence all doubts with a shriek!) 
And first let us shriek the unstinted abuse that the Tory Press prefer -- 
De Wet is a madman, and Steyn is a liar, and Kruger a pitiful cur! 
(Though I think if Oom Paul -- as old as he is -- were to walk down the Strand with his gun, 
A lot of these heroes would hide in the sewers or take to their heels and run! 
For Paul he has fought like a man in his day, but now that he's feeble and weak 
And tired, and lonely, and old and grey, of course it's quite safe to shriek!) 

And next let us join in the bloodthirsty shriek, Hooray for Lord Kitchener's "bag"! 
For the fireman's torch and the hangman's cord -- they are hung on the English Flag! 
In the front of our brave old army! Whoop! the farmhouse blazes bright. 
And the women weep and their children die -- how dare they presume to fight! 
For none of them dress in a uniform, the same as by rights they ought. 
They're fighting in rags and in naked feet, like Wallace's Scotchmen fought! 
(And they clothe themselves from our captured troops -- and they're catching them every week; 
And they don't hand them -- and the shame is ours, but we cover the shame with a shriek!) 
And, lastly, we'll shriek the political shriek as we sit in the dark and doubt; 
Where the Birmingham Judas led us in, and there's no one to lead us out. 
And Rosebery -- whom we depended upon! Would only the Oracle speak! 
"You go to the Grocers," says he, "for your laws!" By Heavens! it's time to shriek!
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Rimmon

 1903

After Boer War


Duly with knees that feign to quake--
 Bent head and shaded brow,--
Yet once again, for my father's sake,
 In Rimmon's House I bow.

The curtains part, the trumpet blares,
 And the eunuchs howl aloud;
And the gilt, swag-bellied idol glares
 Insolent over the crowd.

"This is Rimmon, Lord of the Earth--
 "Fear Him and bow the knee!"
And I watch my comrades hide their mirth
 That rode to the wars with me.

For we remember the sun and the sand
 And the rocks whereon we trod,
Ere we came to a scorched and a scornful land
 That did not know our God;

As we remember the sacrifice,
 Dead men an hundred laid--
Slain while they served His mysteries,
 And that He would not aid--

Not though we gashed ourselves and wept,
 For the high-priest bade us wait;
Saying He went on a journey or slept,
 Or was drunk or had taken a mate.

(Praise ye Rimmon, King of Kings,
 Who ruleth Earth and Sky!
And again I bow as the censer swings
 And the God Enthroned goes by.)

Ay, we remember His sacred ark
 And the virtuous men that knelt
To the dark and the hush behind the dark
 Wherein we dreamed He dwelt;

Until we entered to hale Him out
 And found no more than an old
Uncleanly image girded about
 The loins with scarlet and gold.

Him we o'erset with the butts of our spears--
 Him and his vast designs--
To be scorn of our muleteers
 And the jest of our halted line.

By the picket-pins that the dogs defile,
 In the dung and the dust He lay,
Till the priests ran and chattered awhile
 And we wiped Him and took Him away.

Hushing the matter before it was known,
 They returned to our fathers afar,
And hastily set Him afresh on His throne
 Because he had won us the war.

Wherefore with knees that feign to quake--
 Bent head and shaded brow--
To this dog, for my father's sake,
 In the Rimmon's House I bow!
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Johnny Boer

 Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, 
And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun. 
At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about 
They reckon Fuzzy-Wuzzy is the hottest fighter out. 
But Fuzzy gives himself away -- his style is out of date, 
He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate; 
You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead: 
But when you're fighting Johhny Boer you have to use your head; 
He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run, 
He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun. 
For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear, 
He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer, 
Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own -- 
Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone. 
The Boer need only bring a gun, for ready to his hand 
He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land; 
And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about, 
And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out. 
It ain't a game that grows on us -- there's lots of better fun 
Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun. 

On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy, 
He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy; 
With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocks 
And shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox. 
At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear, 
Next day at dawn -- "What, ho! she bumps" -- from somewhere in the rear. 
Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass -- 
He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass; 
But when the mainguard comes along he opens up the fun; 
There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun. 

But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow. 
We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go. 
With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late, 
We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State; 
And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run, 
And we'll be running after him with our little Maxim gun.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Jock

 There's a soldier that's been doing of his share 
In the fighting up and down and round about. 
He's continually marching here and there, 
And he's fighting, morning in and morning out. 
The Boer, you see, he generally runs; 
But sometimes, when he hides behind a rock, 
And we can't make no impression with the guns, 
Oh, then you'll hear the order, "Send for Jock!" 
Yes -- it's Jock -- Scotch Jock. 
He's the fellow that can give or take a knock. 
For he's hairy and he's hard, 
And his feet are by the yard, 
And his face is like the face what's on a clock. 
But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry -- 
"Send for Jock!" 

The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance; 
Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead. 
The Mounted Foot are hampered in advance 
By holding of their helmets on their head. 
And, when the Boer has dug himself a trench 
And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, 
These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French -- 
They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! 

Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks, 
With their music that'd terrify an ox! 
When the bullets kick the sand 
You can hear the sharp command -- 
"Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!" 
And the charge is like a hood 
When they warmed the Highland blood 
Of the Jocks!
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Song of the Old Guard

 Army Reform-.After Boer war "The Army of a Dream"-Traffics and Discoveries.


Know this, my brethren, Heaven is clear
 And all the clouds are gone--
The Proper Sort shall flourish now,
 Good times are coming on"--
The evil that was threatened late
 To all of our degree
Hath passed in discord and debate,
 And,Hey then up go we!

A common people strove in vain
 To shame us unto toil,
But they are spent and we remain,
 And we shall share the spoil
According to our several needs
 As Beauty shall decree,
As Age ordains or Birth concedes,
 And, Hey then up go we!

And they that with accursed zeal
 Our Service would amend,
Shall own the odds and come to heel
 Ere worse befall their end:
For though no naked word be wrote
 Yet plainly shall they see
What pinneth Orders on their coat,
 And, Hey then up go we!

Our doorways that, in time of fear,
 We opened overwide
Shall softly close from year to year
 Till all be purified;
For though no fluttering fan be heard .
 Nor chaff be seen to flee--
The Lord shall winnow the Lord's Preferred--
 And, Hey then up go we!

Our altars which the heathen brake
 Shall rankly smoke anew,
And anise, mint and cummin take
 Their dread and sovereign due,
Whereby the buttons of our trade
 Shall soon restored be
With curious work in gilt and braid,
 And, Hey then up go we!

Then come, my brethren, and prepare
 The candlesticks and bells,
The scarlet, brass, and badger's hair
 Wherein our Honour dwells,
And straitly fence and strictly keep
 The Ark's integrity
Till Armageddon break our sleep . . .
 And, Hey then go we!
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Columns

  (Mobile Columns of the Boer War)
Out o' the wilderness, dusty an' dry
 (Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply?
 A sectioin, a pompom, an' six 'undred men.

'Ere comes the clerk with 'is lantern an' keys
 (Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin 'again!)
" Surplus of everything--draw what you please
 "For the section, the pompom, an' six 'unrdred men."

"What are our orders an' where do we lay? .
 (Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
"You came after dark--you will leave before day,
 "You section, you pompom, you six' undred men!"

Down the tin street, 'alf awake an 'unfed,
'Ark to 'em blessin' the Gen'ral in bed!

Now by the church an' the outspan they wind--
Over the ridge an' it's all lef' be'ind
 For the section, etc.

Soon they will camp as the dawn's growin' grey,
Roll up for coffee an' sleep while they may--
 The section , etc.

Read their 'ome letters, their papers an' such,
For they'll move after dark to astonish the Dutch
 With a section, etc.

'Untin' for shade as the long hours pass--
Blankets on rifles or burrows in grass,
 Lies the section, etc.

Dossin' or beatin' a shirt in the sun,
Watching chameleons or cleanin' a gun,
 Waits the section, etc.

With nothin' but stillness as far as you please,
An' the silly mirage stringin' islands an' seas
 Round the section, etc.

So they strips off their hide an' they grills in their bones,
Till the shadows crawl out from beneath the pore stones
 Toward the section, etc.

An' the Mauser-bird stops an' the jacals begin
A the 'orse-guard comes up and the Gunners 'ook in
 As a 'int the pompom an' six 'undred men . . . .

 Off through the dark with the stars to rely on---
 (Alpha Centauri an' somethin' Orion)
 Moves the section, etc.

 Same bloomin' 'ole which the ant-bear 'as broke,
 Same bloomin' stumble an' same bloomin' joke
 Down the section, etc.

 Same "which is right?" where the cart-tracks divide,
 Same "give it up" from the same clever guide
 To the section, etc.

Same tumble-down on the same 'idden farm,
Same white-eyed Kaffir 'oo gives the alarm--
 Of the section, etc.

Same shootin' wild at the end o' the night,
Same flyin'-tackle an' same messy fight,
 By the section, etc.

Same ugly 'iccup an' same 'orrid squeal,
When it's too dark to see an' it's too late to feel
 In the section, etc.

 (Same batch of prisoners, 'airy an' still,
 Watchin' their comrades bolt over the 'ill
 Frorn the section, etc. )

 Same chilly glare in the eye of the sun
 As 'e gets up displeasured to see what was done
 By the secton, etc.

Same splash o' pink on the stoep or the kraal,
An' the same quiet face which 'as finished with all
 In the section, the pompom, an' six 'undred men.

Out o' the wilderness, dusty an' dry
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
' Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply ?
 A section, a pompom, an 'six' 'undred men.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Two Kopjes

 (Made Yeomanry towards End of Boer War)
Only two African kopjes,
 Only the cart-tracks that wind
Empty and open between 'em,
 Only the Transvaal behind;
Only an Aldershot column
 Marching to conquer the land . . .
Only a sudden and solemn
 Visit, unarmed, to the Rand.

 Then scorn not the African kopje,
 The kopje that smiles in the heat,
 The wholly unoccupied kopje,
 The home of Cornelius and Piet.
 You can never be sure of your kopje,
 But of this be you blooming well sure,
 A kopje is always a kopje,
 And a Boojer is always a Boer!

Only two African kopjes,
 Only the vultures above,
Only baboons--at the bottom,
 Only some buck on the move;
Only a Kensington draper
 Only pretending to scout . . .
.Only bad news for the paper,
 Only another knock-out.


 Then mock not the African kopje, 
 And rub not your flank on its side,
 The silent and simmering kopje,
 The kopje beloved by the guide.
 You can never be, etc.


Only two African kopjes,
 Only the dust of their wheels,
Only a bolted commando,
 Only our guns at their heels . . .
Only a little barb-wire,
 Only a natural fort,
Only "by sections retire,"
 Only "regret to report! "

 Then mock not the .African kopje,
 Especially when it is twins,
 One sharp and one table-topped kopje
 For that's where the trouble begins.
 You never can be, etc.


Only two African kopjes
 Baited the same as before--
Only we've had it so often,
 Only we're taking no more . . .
Only a wave to our troopers,
 Only our flanks swinging past,
Only a dozen voorloopers,.
 Only we've learned it at last!


 Then mock not the African kopje,
 But take off your hat to the same,
 The patient, impartial old kopje,
 The kopje that taught us the game!
 For all that we knew in the Columns,
 And all they've forgot on the Staff,
 We learned at the Fight o' Two Kopjes,
 Which lasted two years an' a half.


0 mock not the African kopje,
 Not even when peace has been signed--
The kopje that isn't a kopje--
 The kopje that copies its kind.
You can never be sure of your kopje,
 But of this be you blooming well sure,
That a kopje is always a kopje,
 And a Boojer is always a Boer!
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Horrors of Majuba

 'Twas after the great Majuba fight:
And the next morning, at daylight,
Captain Macbean's men were ordered to headquarters camp,
So immediately Captain Macbean and his men set out on tramp. 

And there they were joined by the Blue Jackets and 58th men,
Who, for unflinching courage, no man can them condemn;
And that brave little band was commissioned to bury their dead,
And the little band numbered in all about one hundred. 

And they were supplied with a white flag, fit emblem of death,
Then they started off to O'Neill's farm, with bated breath,
Where their comrades had been left the previous night,
And were lying weltering in their gore, oh! what a horrible sight. 

And when they arrived at the foot of Majuba Hill,
They were stopped by a Boer party, but they meant no ill,
Who asked them what they wanted without dismay,
And when they said, their dead, there was no further delay. 

Then the brave heroes marched on, without any dread,
To the Hill of Majuba to collect and bury their dead;
And to see them climbing Majuba it was a fearful sight,
And much more so on a dark pitch night. 

And on Majuba there was a row of dead men,
Numbering about forty or fifty of them;
There were also numbers of wounded men lying on the ground,
And when Captain Macbean's party gazed on them their sorrow was profound. 

Oh, heaven! what a sight of blood and brains!
While the grass was red all o'er with blood-stains;
Especially at the edge of the Hill, where the 92nd men were killed,
'Twas there that the eyes of Macbean's party with tears filled, 

When they saw their dead and dying comrades in arms,
Who were always foremost in the fight during war's alarms;
But who were now lying dead on Majuba Hill,
And, alas! beyond the aid of all human skill. 

They then went about two hundred yards down the Hill,
And collected fourteen more bodies, which made their blood run chill;
And, into one grave, seventy-five bodies they buried there,
All mostly 92nd men, who, I hope, are free from all care. 

Oh! think of that gallant British band,
Who, at Majuba, made such a heroic stand,
And, take them altogether, they behaved like brave men,
But, alas! they were slaughtered like sheep in a pen. 

Poor fellows! there were few of them left to retire,
Because undauntedly they faced that murderous fire,
That the mighty host poured in upon them, left and right,
From their numerous rifles, day and night. 

The conduct of the 92nd was most brave throughout,
Which has always been the case, without any doubt;
At least, it has been the case in general with the Highland Brigade,
Because in the field they are the foremost, and seldom afraid. 

And to do the British justice at Majuba they behaved right well,
But by overwhelming numbers the most of them fell,
Which I'm very sorry to relate,
That such a brave little band met with such a fate. 

The commanders and officers deserve great praise,
Because they told their men to hold Majuba for three days;
And so they did, until the most of them fell,
Fighting nobly for their Queen and country they loved right well. 

But who's to blame for their fate I'm at a loss to know,
But I think 'twas by fighting too numerous a foe;
But there's one thing I know, and, in conclusion, will say,
That their fame will be handed down to posterity for many a day!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things