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;
  My yoke is the quivering assagai,
      My rein the tough bow-string;
  My bridle curb is 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 locusts' 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 —
  No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks
      His den doth yet retain;
  And none who there his sting provokes,
      Shall find its poison vain!