The Pity Of It

I. In South Africa     Over the lonesome African plain     The stars look down, like eyes of the slain.     A bumping ride across gullies and ruts,     Now a grumble and now a jest,     A bit of profanity jolted out,     Whist!     Into a hornet's nest!     Curse on the scout!     Long-bearded Boers rising out of the rocks,     Rocks that already are crimson-splashed,     Ping-ping of bullets, stabbings and cuts,     As if hell hurtled and hissed,     Then, muffling the shocks,     A sting in the breast,     A mist,     A woman's face down the darkness flashed,     Rest.     All as before, save for still forms spread     Under the boulders dripping red.     Over the lonesome African plain     The stars look down, like eyes of the slain.     II. In The Philippines     Silvery rice-fields whisper wide     How for home and freedom their owners died.     We've set the torch to their bamboo town,     And out they come in a scampering rush,     Little brown men with spears.     Shoot!     Down they go in a crush,     Sickening smears,     Hideous writhing huddles and heaps     Under the palms and the mango-trees.     More, still more! Shoot 'em down     Like brown jack-rabbits that scoot     With comical leaps     Out of the brush.     No loot?     No prisoners, then. As for these     Hush!     The flag that dreamed of delivering     Shudders and droops like a broken wing.     Silvery rice-felds whisper wide     How for home and freedom their owners died.