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