  I hear thee speak of a better land, Where farms are picked up, and the veld is grand; Where game is plenty, and Natives weak, And will work without giving us (gratis) cheek. Father, oh! where is that home for the Boer? Shall we not seek it and slave no more? We will, we will, my child! Is it far away where the placid breast Of N’Gami shines in “the purple west?” Is it where Hermanus two years ago, Found elephant, sea-cow, and buffalo? Is it wooded or plain, inclined for flats? Is it far, far north by old Selekats? Not there, not there, my child! Is it past the Blueberg, and through the fly, Where the men of Zoutpansberg used to die? Where Mauch beheld Mrs. Sheba’s “Roon?” Near Origstadt or St. Lucia’s Bay, Where heaps of the bones of our fathers lay? Not there, not there, my child! Is it on Zambesi, that mooi stream, Where the veld’s so thick that the cows’ milk’s cream, Where the sun’s so hot that all day we sleep— Where Law and Government will be cheap? Is it through the sand?—on the desert’s hem? Oom Piet—oh! is it Gee-roo-salem? Not there, not there, my child! I have not seen it, my gentle neef, It belongs to no regular King or Chief; But far to the west, and near the sea, Where the Damaras’ dwell (spelt with capital “D.”) There is the land of our Hope—and Doom, Far beyond Secheel, and beyond Sekoom. It is there, it is THERE, my child! A. Brodrick. Pretoria, Transvaal, 1879. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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