Part II
Once where Amatola mountains rise up purple to the snow,
Where the forests hide the fountains,
And green pastures sleep below—
Sweeter far than song of battle,
On the breezes of the morn,
Came the lowing of our cattle
And the rustling of our corn.
Where our flocks and herds were feeding
Now the white man’s homestead stands;
And while yet his sword lies bleeding,
Lo, his plough is in new lands.
Lament of Tyala—Anon.