Томас Прингл (Thomas Pringle)

The 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 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—
No! the brown serpent of the rocks
     His den doth yet retain;
And none who there his stings provoke
     Shall find his poison vain.

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