lie the bones of my steed,And the hoof of a heifer of fatherland’s breed:
But mount, my brave boys, if our rifles prove true,
We’ll soon make the spoiler his ravages rue.
Ho! the Hottentot lads have discovered the track—
To his den in the desert we’ll follow him back;
But tighten your girths, and look well to your flints,
For heavy and fresh are the villain’s foot-prints.
Through the rough rocky kloof into grey Huntly-Glen,
Past the wild-olive clump where the wolf has his den,
By the black eagle’s rock at the foot of the fell,
We have tracked him at last to the buffalo’s well.
Now mark yonder brake where the bloodhounds are howling;
And hark that hoarse sound—like the deep thunder growling;
’Tis his lair—’tis his voice!—from your saddles alight;
He’s at bay in the brushwood preparing for fight.
Leave the horses behind—and be still every man;
Let the Mullers and Rennies advance in the van:
Keep fast in your ranks;—by the yell of yon hound,
The savage, I guess, will be out—with a bound.
He comes! the tall jungle before him loud crashing,
His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes flashing;
With a roar of disdain, he leaps forth in his wrath,
To challenge the foe that dare ’leaguer his path.
He couches—ay, now we’ll see mischief, I dread:
Quick—level your rifles—and aim at his head:
Thrust forward the spears, and unsheath every knife—
St. George! he’s upon us!—now, fire, lads, for life!
He’s wounded—but yet he’ll draw blood ere he falls—
Ha! under his paw see Bezudenhout sprawls—
Now Diederik! Christian! right in the brain
Plant each man his bullet—Hurra! he is slain!
Bezudenhout—up, man!—’tis only a scratch—
(You were always a scamp and have met with your match!)
What a glorious lion!—what sinews—what claws—
And seven feet ten from the rump to the jaws!
His hide, with the paws and the bones of his skull,
With the spoils of the leopard and buffalo bull,
We’ll send to Sir Walter—now, boys, let us dine,
And talk of our deeds o’er a flask of old wine.
Thomas Pringle.
THE LION AND THE GIRAFFE.
Wouldst thou view the lion’s den?
Search afar from haunts of men—
Where the reed-encircled rill
Oozes from the rocky hill,
By its verdure far descried
’Mid the desert brown and wide.
Close beside the sedgy brim
Couchant lurks the lion grim;
Watching till the close of day
Brings the death-devoted prey.
Heedless at the ambushed brink
The tall giraffe stoops down to drink.
Upon him straight the savage springs
With cruel joy. The desert rings
With clanging sound of desperate strife—
The prey is strong and he strives for life.
Plunging oft with frantic bound,
To shake the tyrant to the ground,
He shrieks, he rushes through the waste,
With glaring eye and headlong haste:
In vain!—the spoiler on his prize
Rides proudly—tearing as he flies.
For life—the victim’s utmost speed
Is mustered in this hour of need:
For life—for life—his giant might
He strains, and pours his soul in flight:
And mad with terror, thirst and pain,
Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain.
’Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking
His streaming blood—his strength is sinking;
The victor’s fangs are in his veins—
His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains—
His panting breast in foam and gore
Is bathed—he reels—his race is o’er:
He falls—and, with convulsive throe,
Resigns his throat to the ravening foe!
—And lo! ere quivering life has fled,
The vultures, wheeling overhead,
Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array,
Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey.
Thomas Pringle.
