TCDE-Team at 21:03, 4 April 2026

2026-04-04T21:03:41Z

TCDE-Team at 15:18, 13 October 2019

2019-10-13T15:18:00Z

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''1902-1909'' (initially published as ''1902-1910'') is a poem written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] first published in [[Rifleman]] in august 1910, then collected in [[Songs of the Road]] on 16 march 1911.

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== Editions ==

* in ''[[Rifleman]]'' (august 1910 [UK]) as ''1902-1910'' with an additional verse
* in ''[[Songs of the Road]]'' (16 march 1911, [[Smith, Elder & Co.]] [UK])
* in ''[[Songs of the Road]]'' (october 1911, [[Doubleday & McClure Co.|Doubleday, Page & Co.]] [US])
* in ''[[Songs of the Road]]'' (27 january 1920, [[John Murray]] [UK])
* in ''[[Songs of the Road]]'' (february 1920, [[John Murray]] [UK])
* in ''[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]]'' (21 september 1922, [[John Murray]] [UK])
* in ''[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]]'' (14 september 1928, [[John Murray]]'s ''Fiction Library'' [UK])
* in ''[[The Cape Argus]]'' (1 december 1928 [South Africa]) as ''The Africaander'', 3 illustrations by [[Dorelle]]
* in ''[[Cape Times]]'' (1 december 1928 [South Africa]) as ''The Africaander'', 3 illustrations by [[Dorelle]]

== 1902-1909 ==

They recruited William Evans 
From the ploughtail and the spade; 
Ten years' service in the Devons 
Left him smart as they are made.

Thirty or a trifle older, 
Rather over six foot high, 
Trim of waist and broad of shoulder, 
Yellow-haired and blue of eye;

Short of speech and very solid, 
Fixed in purpose as a rock, 
Slow, deliberate, and stolid, 
Of the real West-country stock.

He had never been to college, 
Got his teaching in the corps, 
You can pick up useful knowledge 
'Twixt Saltash and Singapore.

Old Field-Cornet Piet van Celling 
Lived just northward of the Vaal, 
And he called his white-washed dwelling, 
Blesbock Farm, Rhenoster Kraal.

In his politics unbending, 
Stern of speech and grim of face, 
He pursued the never-ending 
Quarrel with the English race.

Grizzled hair and face of copper, 
Hard as nails from work and sport, 
Just the model of a Dopper 
Of the fierce old fighting sort.

With a shaggy bearded quota 
On commando at his order, 
He went off with Louis Botha 
Trekking for the British border.

When Natal was first invaded 
He was fighting night and day, 
Then he scouted and he raided, 
With De Wet and Delaney.

Till he had a brush with Plumer, 
Got a bullet in his arm, 
And returned in sullen humour 
To the shelter of his farm.

Now it happened that the Devons, 
Moving up in that direction, 
Sent their Colour-Sergeant Evans 
Foraging with half a section.

By a friendly Dutchman guided, 
A Van Eloff or De Vilier, 
They were promptly trapped and hided, 
In a manner too familiar.

When the sudden scrap was ended, 
And they sorted out the bag, 
Sergeant Evans lay extended 
Mauseritis in his leg.

So the Kaffirs bore him, cursing, 
From the scene of his disaster, 
And they left him to the nursing 
Of the daughters of their master.

Now the second daughter, Sadie — 
But the subject why pursue? 
Wounded youth and tender lady, 
Ancient tale but ever new.

On the stoep they spent the gloaming, 
Watched the shadows on the veldt, 
Or she led her cripple roaming 
To the eucalyptus belt.

He would lie and play with Jacko, 
The baboon from Bushman's Kraal, 
Smoked Magaliesberg tobacco 
While she lisped to him in Taal.

Till he felt that he had rather 
He had died amid the slaughter, 
If the harshness of the father 
Were not softened in the daughter.

So he asked an English question, 
And she answered him in Dutch, 
But her smile was a suggestion, 
And he treated it as such.

Now among Rhenoster kopjes 
Somewhat northward of the Vaal, 
You may see four little chappies, 
Three can walk and one can crawl.

And the blue of Transvaal heavens 
Is reflected in their eyes, 
Each a little William Evans, 
Smaller model — pocket size.

Each a little Burgher Piet 
Of the hardy Boer race, 
Two great peoples seem to meet 
In the tiny sunburned face.

And they often greatly wonder 
Why old granddad and Papa, 
Should have been so far asunder, 
Till united by mamma.

And when asked, "Are you a Boer. 
Or a little Englishman?" 
Each will answer, short and sure, 
"I am a South African."

But the father answers, chaffing, 
"Africans but British too." 
And the children echo, laughing, 
"Half of mother — half of you."

It may seem a crude example, 
In an isolated case, 
But the story is a sample 
Of the welding of the race.

So from bloodshed and from sorrow, 
From the pains of yesterday, 
Comes the nation of to-morrow 
Broadly based and built to stay.

Loyal spirits strong in union, 
Joined by kindred faith and blood; 
Brothers in the wide communion 
Of our sea-girt brotherhood.

----
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:Complete Works|Back to Complete Works]]
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle|Back to Conan Doyle]]

1902-1909 - Revision history

TCDE-Team at 21:03, 4 April 2026

TCDE-Team at 15:18, 13 October 2019