Andrew Barton Paterson (Эндрю Бартон Патерсон)
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 But Fuzzy gives himself away -- his style is out of date, He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate; You’ve nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead: But when you’re fighting Johhny Boer you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.
Andrew Barton Paterson’s other poems:
952
