The night has gone, the golden sun has riz, The khaki men have all begun to friz, Cleared is the mushroom camp of yesterday, And forth they go upon the Empire's biz. Oh! hopes of home that with each morning rise, Oh! wondrous legends which wild minds devise; One thing is certain, and the rest is lies, The Yeoman, once enlisted, often sighs. Oh! fool to cry "The Boer is on the run," He is, we know, and _ain't forgot his gun_; And often from the rocky kopje side He stops and pots--your mess is minus one. I sometimes think that nought whiffs on the wind As strong as where some dying steed reclined; That any casual stranger passing by The place, if asked, again could eas'ly find. Alas! that Mausers are not turned to hoes, That Christmas comes, and with the pudding goes; And we stick here for ever and a day, When we return (or _if_) _who knows_--WHO KNOWS? Oh! Pard, could thou and I with Holmes conspire To round De Wet up with his force entire; Would we not smash it all to bits--and then Get somewhere nearer to our heart's desire. A pipe o' baccy 'neath a leafy tree, A recent mail from far across the sea, No one to worry for an hour or two, And veldt, indeed, were Paradise to me. And, lo, 'tis vain the generals to blame, Keep boldly sticking at the ancient game; And if to-day you are upon the veldt, To-morrow it will also be the same. Each morn's _reveille_ comes like some nightmare, Sleepy you rise and pack your kit, and swear; Then mount your saddled steed with gun in hand, And hasten off, you know not why or where. Some in the fighting let their hearts rejoice, For some the waggons are the patriot's choice: Oh! loot the farm, don't let the chickens go, Nor heed the roaring of the sergeant's voice! They say the gentlemen in khaki keep The courts where Kruger once did plot so deep; That great Oom Paul across the sea has trekked, Before the Courts of Europe now to weep. We are but pawns, first front, then flank, then rear, Moved by the Master Players there and here Upon the veldt and kopje (that's the board), _Sans_ tents, _sans_ beds, _sans_ pudding and _sans_ BEER. Yon broiling sun which smiles and is our bane, Yon thunder-cloud which means a soaking rain, Will both some day look down upon this veldt For us, and let us hope 'twill be in vain. The above extract will, I am sure, suffice to show the general tone of the khaki Rubaiyat, and be more than enough to damn my poor but honest reputation. TREATMENT OF THE SICK. KRUGERSDORP, _December 5th, 1900._