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. 
But he 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!