Here you will find the Poem Song of the Wild Bushman of poet Thomas Pringle
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; My yoke is the quivering assagai, My rein the tough bow-string; My bridle curb is 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 locusts' swarm, Which mighty nations dread, To me nor terror brings nor harm -- For I make of them my bread. 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 sting provokes, Shall find its poison vain!