The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den,
In the lone wilderness. Around him lie
His wife and little ones unfearingly —
For they are far away from " Christian-Men."
No herds, loud lowing, call him down the glen:
He fears no foe but famine; and may try
To wear away the hot noon slumberingly;
Then rise to search for roots — and dance again.
BuThe shall dance no more! His secret lair,
Surrounded, echoes to the thundering gun,
And the wild shriek of anguish and despair!
He dies — yet, ere life's ebbing sands are run,
Leaves to his sons a curse, should they be friends
With the proud " Christian-Men" — for they are fiends!