*Cairowards*

Going up--and by all one man's will! Untrodden lands shall echo with our roars, Our engines' wheels shall break the mountains' still, Uncharted rivers see us by their shores; And where the lions drink, and panthers prey, Shall lie the ballast of our iron-bound way.

Going up! Primaeval forest, where The Bushman lurks with poison at his lips, Must give its best, and all its treasures bare, When our iron-monster in its hollows dips; And caves, from which the cobra issues forth, Shall be a Somewhere Junction--for the North.

Going up! Eternal snows, that crown The lonely summits of the lordly hills, Shall look upon our laboured paths, and frown Upon the girdered bridge that spans their rills; But, clinging to the slope, with scanty hold, The road shall be unfastened, fold by fold.

Going up! The stifling winds that blow Across the sweep of fiery desert waste Shall clog and cloy our workings as we go, And strive to check us in our desp'rate haste, With sand that holds us in its shifting clutch-- And iron and brass shall blister to the touch.

Going up! The Nile in sullen wrath Shall rise and smite the sleeper from the rail, And say: 'Behold the Mistress of the North! Who does not let the work of man prevail!' But patient man shall strive against her might Until the palms of Cairo are in sight!

*ODE TO THE OPENING OF THE SOUTH AFRICAN EXHIBITION, 1898*

Father of all! Robed in splendour, Thou who dost wield Almighty power, All things are thine, Fruitage and flower-- Cattle and kine-- Vineyard and field! Hear, when we call. Praising the Sender!

Father of all! Strong to deliver! Here, do we place, Down at Thy feet, Fruits of our hands-- Trophies of wheat, Won from Thy lands-- Trophies of chase. Hear, when we call, Praising the Giver!

Father of all! Weaver and fuller; Craftsman and herd; Chapman and knave; Worker and drone; Headman and slave, Worship a-prone-- Bow to Thy word! Hear Thou our call, Praising the Ruler!

Father of all! Billow and breaker Sink to Thy nod! Here, have we brought, That which we found, That which we wrought, Drawn from Thy ground, Culled from Thy sod. Hear, when we call, Praising the Maker!

Father of all! Thine is the story Written in space! What Thou hast made Knows not of death. Let us not fade, Catching Thy breath, Live by Thy grace! Hear Thou our call, Thine is the Glory!

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press