Here you will find the Poem The Kosa of poet Thomas Pringle
The free-born Kosa still doth hold The fields his fathers held of old; With club and spear, in jocund ranks, Still hunts the elk by Chumi's banks: By Keisi's meads his herds are lowing; On Debè's slopes his gardens glowing, Where laughing maids at sunset roam, To bear the juicy melons home: And striplings from Kalumna's wood Bring wild grapes and the pigeon's brood, With fragrant hoard of honey-bee Rifled from the hollow tree: And herdsmen shout from rock to rock; And through the glen the hamlets smoke; And children gambol round the kraal, To greet their sires at evening-fall: And matrons sweep the cabin floor, And spread the mat beside the door, And with dry fagots wake the flame To dress the wearied huntsmen's game. Bright gleams the fire: its ruddy blaze On many a dusky visage plays. On forkèd twigs the game is drest; The neighbours share the simple feast: The honey-mead, the millet-ale, Flow round -- and flow the jest and tale; Wild legends of the ancient day, Of hunting feat, of warlike fray; And now come smiles, and now come sighs, As mirth and grief alternate rise. Or should a sterner strain awake, Like sudden flame in summer-brake, Bursts fiercely forth in battle song The tale of Amakósa's wrong; Throbs every warrior bosom high, With lightning flashes every eye, And, in wild cadence, rings the sound Of barbèd javelins clashing round. But lo, like a broad shield on high, The moon gleams in the midnight sky. 'Tis time to part: the watch-dog's bay Beside the folds has died away. 'Tis time to rest: the mat is spread, The hardy hunter's simple bed: His wife her dreaming infant hushes On the low cabin's couch of rushes; Softly he draws its door of hide, And, stretched by his Gulúwi's side, Sleeps soundly till the peep of dawn Wakes on the hills the dappled fawn; Then forth again he gaily bounds, With club and spear and questing hounds.