Friday, May 28, 2010

A Poem.

Long Tom O’ Pepworth’s Hill

He doth not speak in parable
Or whisper soft and low,
So all the folk of Ladysmith
His ever every accent know;
For he can bend the stiffest back
And mould the strongest will,
He’s quite a little autocrat,
Long Tom o’ Pepworth’s Hill.
We listen when he speaks in wrath,
We’re braver when he cools,
Yet he is very kind to men
If somewhat rough on mules.
He brings us bounding out of bed
When we would fain lie still,
We grumble but we all obey
Long Tom o’ Pepworth’s Hill.
A breezy bluff intrusive sort,
He visits everywhere,
Sometimes he seeks your cellar cool,
Sometimes your easy chair.
Sometimes he enters by the roof,
Sometimes the window sill,
It’s vain to say you’re not at home
To Tom o’ Pepworth’s Hill.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

The Borough of Ladysmith.

The Borough of Ladysmith was Shelled on November 2, 1899.(Anonymous)

All within the leagured Bobs,
Calm and peaceful as of yore,
Sat the people silently waiting
The dread cannon’s awful roar.
Overhead the sun was shining,
All serene the landscape lay.
Waiting for the great disturbance
All expected on that day.
Then broke forth a voice of thunder -
With the shock the air was rent -
Overhead there came a something -
Instantly every head was bent.
Part a whistle – part a howling -
Part a scream. And part a yell –
Then a shock – a noise of bursting.
’Twas the “murmur of the shell”.