Wrong is it? Most wickedly wrong! That treacherous raid, some call _ride_, Of Jameson, Maxims, and rover throng; Though _noblemen_ rode by his side. They may argue, and hunt for excuses, To prove their intention was good, Common sense now it is that accuses And proclaims their intention was _loot_. Let lawyers and statesmen ponder, To prove that their action was right; Van den Berg, MacDonald, Van Tonder, Lost their lives in the wantonest fight. When the jobbers wrote secretly, ‘help us’ ‘In our scramble for more and more gold,’ Jameson’s answer it ought to have been thus: ‘British honour I’m bound to uphold.’ There are babes in the Gold Reef City, There are boys and maidens and wives, And the cowards, that knew no pity, Imperilled those innocent lives. Had they done what their duty demanded, We would never have heard of the raid; Had but counsels of prudence commanded, Constitutional ways were their aid. But Jameson’s band scampered forward, As hard as their horses could pelt, First eastward, then westward, then nor’ward, Meandering over the veld, Till the sons of the land they invaded With courage, the offspring of right, The usurpers with bullets persuaded They had to surrender or fight. There was heard the dread Maxim’s rattle And thundering cannon’s loud roar, But Jameson found in this battle His match in the Transvaal Boer. I can tell you it wasn’t a trifle, That search for a hole to creep through While the Boers plied unerring the rifle, Taught the raiders to die or to do. They made tracks for the Gold Reef City, Expecting their jobber friends out, But those cowards, whom brave men pity, Had noticed their plot ‘up the spout.’ They distinctly could hear the guns rattle, They could help. Did they ever try? No. They left their poor dupes to do battle, To be driven about, and to die. The raiders had supped, drank and slumbered, And were fully prepared for the fray; They knew that they were not outnumbered, But their conscience caused them dismay. They’re not very considerate or tender, But their hearts sunk down to the boot, And they had to accept a surrender In lieu of gold, glory and loot. I’m sure they were wrong--worse than madmen, And I think at the Judgment Day, When God sifts the good from the bad men, For themselves they’ll have little to say. They were wrong, but they are not sorry, They’ve caused innocent blood to flow, And the men who joined such a foray, Unrepentant, to Satan must go. GERT DIKKOP. Basterland, Feb. 1896. After Steve had finished reading, the smiling and laughter-loving Scotchman burst into a hearty laugh.