The Natal Gold Diggings. To Greenhorns

Herr Mauch’s all well I dare can tell—
But don’t you go a digging;
The tetse bites, the nigger fights,
And thieves are always prigging.

The lions growl, the jackals prowl
All round about the waggon;
And when, poor soul, you seize the bowl,
You find an empty flagon.

And sleep at night you cannot quite,
There’s such an endless squalling;
Mosquitos sting, hyenas sing
In human laugh-like brawling.

The zebras bound o’er shaking ground
In many a wild stampedo;
The blesbok, too, and sportive gnu,
Make noise as much as they do.

’Fore break of day you must away
To reach the doubtful water,
And if you’re not a steady shot
You ne’er a buck will slaughter.

So my advice to Greenhands is—
Don’t with the goldfields meddle;
But stick to steak and Simms’ mild make!
And “Smouse” around and “peddle.”

And those who go—I hope they know
The lingo of the “Doppers;”
Their customs too, ’twas well you knew,
To shake them by their floppers.

With stolid stare, your head to bare,
And answer to each query;
From whence you hail, to where you sail,
And if your mother’s cheery.

In Kaffir kraals, look out for squalls;
Elope not with the “nieces,”
For if you do, the act you’ll rue
Amongst the “Makateses.”

Mid upper blacks you’ll want an axe,
For there there’s more than one tree;
And gifts a few you’ll carry to
Umziligazi’s country.

And now, good-bye, perhaps you’ll try
With crowbar, pick, and hammer,
To soften down stern Fortune’s frown,
And if you can’t, why, d——r.

——Moodie.