Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/181

 THE BUSHMAN. 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.