Classic Poem

Let others leave the tented field,
Lay down the sword and tamely yield;
Let recreant burghers bow the knee
And own an alien sovereignty;
Leyds shall be to his ancient foes
Unconquerably bellicose!

His is the heart that nought can tame,
His are the deeds that all acclaim;
Botha, De Wet, and De la Rey
And General Cronje, who are they?
Their deeds are dim, their glory fades
Beside the loud repute of Leyds.

The Hague has seen his prowess shown
And Europe heard his trumpet blown;
His knightly figure, all confess,
Did great achievements in the Press ,
And — from his Belgian retreat —
This great man never owned defeat!

Choosing a comfortable spot
Where bayonet and shell were not,
He plied a very valiant pen,
Bidding the fighters come again.
And no one ever heard him whine
When bullets thinned the fighting line.

While others bore the battle's brunt
He showed a calm unruffled front;
The wounded Dopper on the veld
His steadfast spirit could not melt;
Still from the land where he had gone
He stoutly cried, " Fight on! Fight on! "

When others, clad in war's array,
Though beaten, still renewed the fray,
He urged them on into the breach,
Himself securely out of reach,
And when they finally gave in,
He still was sure that they would win.

Thus unperturbed and unsubdued
He kept his dauntless attitude,
Nothing could bend his stubborn will,
And quite unbent he keeps it still;
Botha and Co. may sheathe their blades,
But never, never Dr. Leyds!

In Europe, lapped in utter peace,
And amply guarded by police,
Where never bullet whistles near
To shake a brave man's heart with fear,
He nails his colours to the mast,
And breathes defiance to the last!

And I imagine no one knows
The end of this preposterous pose;
Year after year will pass from sight,
But Leyds will not give up the fight,
Still consecrating every day
To an imaginary fray,
In which in the last ditch he lies
And — metaphorically — dies.