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THE CAFFER.

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Lo! where he crouches by the Kloof’s dark side,

Eyeing the farmer’s lowing herds, afar;

Impatient watching till the evening star

Leads forth the twilight dim, that he may glide

Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride

He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar

Of recent wound—but burnishes for war

His assegai and targe of buffalo hide.

He is a robber? True; it is a strife

Between the black skinned bandit and the white.

A savage?—Yes; though loth to aim at life,

Evil for evil fierce he doth requite.

A heathen?—Teach him, then, thy better creed,

Christian! if thou deserv’st that name indeed.

Thomas Pringle.


The Poetry of South Africa

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