MOST of the verses in this little volume were conceived and written, if not quite finished, at the time of Cronje’s surrender at Paardeberg.

A certain doubt, however, as to any message of theirs, though modestly set off by a belief in their polemic and literary value, has, I think now, unduly delayed their advent into the crowded world of print; and, though the present juncture of a heralded, but, by no means, perfected peace, be perhaps not a very opportune moment for their publication, I have yet thought well to give them forth; the more, since what so be the outcome of the negotiations pending, and whichsoever be the motive of the stronger party thereto—whether a bitter, though slowly realized necessity, or, a trick of pure heart, or, say, tardy insight and charity, both—be this as it may—the long, though fruitless attempt on England’s part to compel a surrender by the South African republics of their political existence, illustrating and upholding, as no modern exhibition of this kind has done, how rampant is still in Man, and collective Man especially, a tacit faith in the bigger fist, or, euphemistically speaking, the predatory law of nature—this, I repeat it, can never, it seems to me, be sufficiently reprehended; and a hearty condemnation of it may, therefore, fitly form the theme of conscientious, if necessarily, censorious verse: with which contention the following pieces are frankly submitted, even at this late day of a stupendous struggle of moral Right—whatsoever its intellectual grounds and equipment—against an aggressive and overweening Might, whose partial defence allowed, rests, after all, and as already maintained, its wider base on purely material force, on that callous and objective expediency, which History, in her account of human odds, evermore reveals, and, far too often, glaringly condones.

New York, May, 1902.

Since the above was set down, Peace has at last gone forth, and of a pace with the better drift and traditions of England; but even so, there seems no valid ground why these Lyrics should not be heard, as an exponent in brief—inadequate, if you like, yet human no less—of a, for a long time, not to be forgotten broil, if, indeed, the sad imp of Contention has had his last say about it.

November, 1902.