With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively: And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. Away-away-in the wilderness vast
Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan:
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; And the bitter melon, for food and drink, Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt-lake's brink; A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears, to refresh the aching eye; But the barren earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread-void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, "A still small voice" comes through the wild, Like a father consoling his fretful child, Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, Saying-Man is distant, but God is near!
Thomas Pringle [1789-1834]
WHO remains in London,
In the streets with me, Now that Spring is blowing Warm winds from the sea; Now that trees grow green and tall,
Now the sun shines mellow,
And with moist primroses all
English lanes are yellow?
Little barefoot maiden,
Selling violets blue, Hast thou ever pictured
Where the sweetlings grew?
Oh, the warm wild woodland ways, Deep in dewy grasses,
Where the wind-blown shadow strays,
Scented as it passes!
Peddler breathing deeply,
Toiling into town,
With the dusty highway
You are dusky brown;
Hast thou seen by daisied leas,
And by rivers flowing, Lilac-ringlets which the breeze
Loosens lightly blowing?
Out of yonder wagon
Pleasant hay-scents float,
He who drives it carries
A daisy in his coat:
Oh, the English meadows, fair
Far beyond all praises! Freckled orchids everywhere
Mid the snow of daisies!
Now in busy silence
Broods the nightingale, Choosing his love's dwelling
In a dimpled dale;
Round the leafy bower they raise Rose-trees wild are springing; Underneath, through the green haze, Bounds the brooklet singing.
And his love is silent
As a bird can be,
For the red buds only
Fill the red rose-tree;
Just as buds and blossoms blow He'll begin his tune,
When all is green and roses glow Underneath the moon.
Nowhere in the valleys
Will the wind be still,
Everything is waving, Wagging at his will:
Blows the milkmaid's kirtle clean With her hand pressed on it; Lightly o'er the hedge so green Blows the plowboy's bonnet.
Oh, to be a-roaming In an English dell! Every nook is wealthy,
All the world looks well, Tinted soft the Heavens glow, Over Earth and Ocean, Waters flow, breezes blow,
All is light and motion!
Robert Buchanan [1841-1901]
YONDER in the heather there's a bed for sleeping, Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet.
Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and by
Homeless in the City, poor among the poor!
London streets are gold-ah, give me leaves a-glinting 'Midst gray dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting— God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run!
Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather-bells. Ada Smith [18
(To an Air of Schubert)
GIVE to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river— There's the life for a man like me, There's the life for ever.
Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me.
IN THE HIGHLANDS
IN the highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens
Where essential silence cheers and blesses
And for ever in the hill-recesses
Her more lovely music
Broods and dies.
O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low green meadows
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