The she wolf’s ruthless whelp that tare Old Africa is dead and all Despised; but Egypt still is fair, Jugartha brave; and Hannibal Still hero of the Alps and more To-day than all red men of Rome. Archimedes still holds his measured home; Grim Marius his ruins as of yore, And heart still turns to heart, as then. Live by the sword and by the sword Ye surely die: thus saith the Lord-- And die despised of men. TO OOM PAUL KRUGER. ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY. His shield a skin, his sword a prayer: Seventy-five years old to-day! Yet mailed young hosts are marshaling there To hound down in his native lair-- Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa. Mars! Ever was such shameless shame? Christ’s calend calls the roll to-day, Yet Christians write the sweet Christ’s name In blood, and seek, with sword and flame-- Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa. Stand firm, grim shepherd-hero, stand! The world’s watchtowers teem to-day With men who pray with lifted hand For you and yours, old, simple, grand-- Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa. God’s pity for the foolish few Who guide great England’s hosts to-day! They cannot make the false the true; They can but turn true hearts to you-- Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa. Or king or cowboy, steep or plain, Or palace hall, where, what--to-day, All, all, despite of place or gain, Are with you, with you heart and brain-- Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa. Brave England’s bravest, best, her Fair, Who love fair play, are yours to-day. And oh, the heart, the hope, the prayer-- The _world_ is with you over there-- Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa. USLAND[C] TO THE BOERS. And where lies Usland, Land of Us? Where Freedom lives, there Usland lies! Fling down that map and measure thus Or argent seas or sapphire skies: To north the North Pole, south as far As ever eagle cleaved his way; To east the blazing morning star, And west? West to the Judgment Day! No borrowed lion, rampt in gold; No bleeding Erin, plaintive strains; No starving millions, mute and cold; No plundered India, prone in chains; No peaceful farmer, forced to fly Or draw his plowshare from the sod, And, fighting, one to fifty, die For freedom, fireside and God. Fear not, brave, freeborn, voiceless Boers. Great Usland’s heart is yours to-day. Aye, England’s heart of hearts is yours, Whatever scheming men may say. Her scheming men have mines to sell, And we? Why, meat and corn and wheat. But, Boers, all brave hearts wish you well; For England’s triumph means defeat. [C] It is a waste of ink and energy to write “United States of America” always. All our property is marked Us. Then why not Usland? And why should we always say American? The Canadian, the Mexican, the Brazilian and so on are as entirely entitled to the name American as we. Why not say Usman, as Frenchman, German, and so on?