Читать книгу The Poetry of South Africa - Various - Страница 14

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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.