To seek new homes on Afric’s southern strand:Better to launch with them than sink forlorn,
To vile dependence in our native land;
Better to fall in God’s than man’s unfeeling hand!
With hearts resigned they tranquilly prepare
To share the fortunes of that exile train.
And soon with many a follower, forth they fare—
High hope and courage in their hearts again:
And now, afloat upon the dark-blue main,
They gaze upon the fast-receding shore
With tearful eyes—while thus the ballad strain,
Half heard amidst the ocean’s weltering roar,
Bids farewell to the scenes they ne’er shall visit more:—
“Our native land—our native vale—
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,
And Cheviot mountains blue!
“Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song;
Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads
Our hearts have loved so long.
“Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,
O’erhung with birk and sloe.
“The battle-mound, the Border-tower,
That Scotia’s annals tell;
The martyr’s grave, the lover’s bower—
To each—to all—farewell!
“Home of our hearts! our father’s home!
Land of the brave and free!
The sale is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!
“We seek a wild and distant shore
Beyond the Atlantic main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again:
“But may dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires,
When we, or ours, forget thy name,
Green Island of our Sires.
“Our native land—our native vale—
A long, a last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,
And Scotland’s mountains blue.”
Thomas Pringle.
Huntschaw, Sept. 20, 1819.
THE BECHUANA BOY.
I sat at noontide in my tent,
And looked across the desert dun,
Beneath the cloudless firmament
Far gleaming in the sun,
When from the bosom of the waste
A swarthy stripling came in haste,
With foot unshod and naked limb;
And a tame springbok followed him.
With open aspect, frank yet bland,
And with a modest mien he stood,
Caressing with a gentle hand
That beast of gentle brood;
Then, meekly gazing in my face,
Said in the language of his race,
With smiling look yet pensive tone,
“Stranger—I’m in the world alone!”
“Poor boy,” I said, “thy native home
Lies far beyond the Stormberg blue:
Why hast thou left it, boy! to roam
This desolate Karroo?”
His face grew sadder while I spoke;
The smile forsook it; and he broke
Short silence with a sob-like sigh,
And told his hapless history.
“I have no home!” replied the boy;
“The Bergenaars—by night they came,
And raised their wolfish howl of joy,
While o’er our huts the flame
Resistless rushed; and aye their yell
Pealed louder as our warriors fell
In helpless heaps beneath their shot:
—One living man they left us not!
“The slaughter o’er, they gave the slain
To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey,
And with our herds across the plain
They hurried us away—
The widowed mothers and their brood.
Oft, in despair, for drink or food
We vainly cried; they heeded not,
But with sharp lash the captive smote.
“Three days we tracked that dreary wild,
Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;
And many a mother and
