Poem by 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.

1. Afar in the Desert
2. The Slave Dealer
3. The Bechuana Boy
4. To Sir Walter Scott
5. The Emigrant's Farewell

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