  Let the proud white man boast his flocks, And fields of foodful grain; My home is ’mid the mountain rocks, The desert my domain. I toil not for my cheer; The desert yields me juicy roots, And herds of bounding deer. The countless springboks are my flock, Spread o’er the unbounded plain; The buffalo bendeth to my yoke, The wild horse to my rein; My yoke is the quivering assegai, My rein the tough bow-string; My bridle curb a slender barb— Yet it quells the forest king. The crested adder honoureth me, And yields at my command His poison bag, like the honey-bee, When I seize him on the sand. Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm, Which mighty nations dread, To me nor terror brings, nor harm— For I make of them my bread. Thus I am lord of the Desert Land, And I will not leave my bounds, To crouch beneath the Christian’s hand, And kennel with his hounds: To be a hound, and watch the flocks, For the cruel white man’s gain— His den doth yet retain; And none who there his stings provokes Shall find his poison vain! Thomas Pringle. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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