Song of the Wild Bushman
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 plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits,
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;6
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.7
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—
No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks
His den doth yet retain;
And none who there his stings provokes
Shall find his poison vain!
Thomas Pringle.