On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday

His shield a skin, his sword a prayer: Seventy-five years old to-day! Yet mailed young hosts are marshaling there To hound down in his native lair— Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

Mars! Ever was such shameless shame? Christ’s calend calls the roll to-day, Yet Christians write the sweet Christ’s name In blood, and seek, with sword and flame— Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

Stand firm, grim shepherd-hero, stand! The world’s watchtowers teem to-day With men who pray with lifted hand For you and yours, old, simple, grand— Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

God’s pity for the foolish few Who guide great England’s hosts to-day! They cannot make the false the true; They can but turn true hearts to you— Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

Or king or cowboy, steep or plain, Or palace hall, where, what—to-day, All, all, despite of place or gain, Are with you, with you heart and brain— Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

Brave England’s bravest, best, her Fair, Who love fair play, are yours to-day. And oh, the heart, the hope, the prayer— The world is with you over there— Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.