ma LlbKAKK SONGS OUT OF EXILE Opinions of the Press. " A new poet, Cullcn Gouldsbury . . . has done for the white man in Africa what Adam Lindsay Gordon in a measure accomplished for the Com- monwealth, and Kipling triumphantly for the British race." Referee. " Mr. Gouldsbury is already known as a writer of vigorous and picturesque verse." Spectator. "All who have read Mr. Gouldsbury's striking poems will expect a good deal." South Africa. "There are other poems from the same pen in this welcome volume (Mr. Crouch's Anthology of South African Verse), but none so strong, so tender as this ('The Pace of the Ox'). Mr. Cullen Gouldsbury, the writer, is to be welcomed among the poets who think." Liverpool Daily Post. SONGS OUT OF EXILE BEING VERSES OF AFRICAN SUNSHINE, SHADOW, AND BLACK MAN'S TWILIGHT BY CULLEN GOULDSBURY AUTHOR OF "THE TREE OF BITTER FRUIT," "GOD'S OUTPOST," " CIRCE'S GARDEN," ETC. AND JOINT AUTHOR OF "THE GREAT PLATEAU OF NORTHERN RHODESIA" T. FISHER UNWIN LTD LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE Pint Edition, July, 191* Second Impression, July, 1912 Third Impression, July, 1916 Fourth Impression, December, 1018 Fifth lmprcssion,Dccmber, (All rights r curved) NOTE MOST of the following verses have already appeared in a little volume " Rhodesian Rhymes," published by Messrs. Philpott and Collins, of Bulawayo. Some few were contributed to South African periodicals subsequently to the appearance of that volume the remainder are now printed for the first time. Many of the verses in lighter vein and of more purely topical interest which were included in " Rhodesian Rhymes " have been omitted from this selection ; they were, perhaps, amusing in their day, but that day is done, and they were hardly worth perpetuating. I must repeat my acknowledgments to the editors of The Rhodesian Times, The South African Magazine, The Rhodesian Advertiser, The Rhodesian, The African Monthly, for permission to republish, and must also add my thanks to Messrs. Philpott and Collins for their courtesy in permitting the publication of this edition. CULLEN GOULDSBURY. LONDON, April 17, 1912. CONTENTS SUNSHINE THE NORTHERN LINE . . A WINDOW IN PICCADILLY . DREAMS, IDLE DREAMS . . VELD FANCIES . . . THE SONG OF THE SHIRT . FOR WOMEN ONLY . . THE PACE OF THE OX . SUNDOWN . . . . A REMINDER . . . THE OUT-STATION . . THE VEERING OF THE VANE . OP AN ENGLISH ROOM . . REMEMBRANCE . . . PAQB .13 IJ 19 21 23 2$ 27 29 31 33 35 8 CONTENTS SHADOW MM OF ANY POKT IN AFRICA . . . . .4* ON PATROL . . . . . .43 THE SONG OP THE TRANSPORT RIDER . . .46 THE WHITE KAFIR . . . . .48 DINGES AND I . . . . . .52 A BALLAD OF THE B.M.R. . . . .57 DAWN IN THE HUT . . . . .59 AFRICAN AUTUMN . . . , . . 6l BY THE ROADSIDE . . . . .62 THE RING-FENCE .... .65 THE PLACE WHERE THE ELEPHANTS DIB . . 68 EXILE . . . . . . .71 SOUVENIRS . . . . , .75 HEIMLUST . . . . . . .76 OUT OF THE VLEI . . . . .78 BLACK MAN'S TWILIGHT THE DAHA-SMOKER . . . . .83 THE SHADOW-GIRL . . . ,87 THE RIVER OF FATE . . . . .90 CONTENTS 9 PACK THE SONG OP THE CARRIERS . . , . 92 THE TESTING OK THE 'MLIMO . . . .95 ZAMA AND ZIRWA . . . . . .99 THE POTS OF FULACHAMA . . . .103 THE WITCH-MAN ...... IO8 THE SONG OF THE REAPERS . . . .112 A STUDY IN PHILANTHROPY , . . .US MAROMO ON MORALS . . . . . 1 17 MAMBO'S BURIAL SONG . . . . .119 THE CHIEF ...... 122 THE POINT OF VIEW . . . . .12$ THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL . . . .128 THE BELLOWS OF BUNGU THE BLACKSMITH . . 131 DEAD MEN'S CLOTHES * . . 133 THE SLAYING OF MTIKANA .... 135 AFTERWORD . . . , . .142 SUNSHINE THE NORTHERN LINE YE who dwell in crowded cities, hold your hands awhile, Let the stamps hang idle for a time Let the mills go hungry ; ye have mostly made your pile, Spare me just a moment for my rhyme. Northward out of Jo'burg City send your fancy forth, Heedless of the markets and the mails Drift on wings of dreaming to the silent, sombre North, Far beyond your gleaming line of rails. Money works a potent magic gold can sway the globe Are there, then, no better things than these? What of endless wood'ands in their dainty autumn robe, And the whistle of the wind among the trees ? 11 14 THE NORTHERN LINE Come ye out of city bondage ! Listen for a space Other worlds lie none so far away Where, to other markets, throng the men of alien race, Moulded from an elemental clay. Ragged cliff and tangled jungle, swamp and dim lagoon (Are you homesick for the roaring of the mill ?) Bush paths gleaming whitely in the radiance of the moon (Do you wish that you were back in Jo'burg still?). Trampled tracks of mighty creatures, bleaching bones of prey, Tiny huts of simple, savage men Tragedies that hover 'twixt the dawning and the day There are many things beyond the city ken! Come ye out of city bondage ! take the Northern line, Never turning backward in regret Listen to my rhyming ; in the clatter of the mine You'll be wishing you were out of Jo'burg yet ! A WINDOW IN PICCADILLY ROAR of the east and roar of the west Came echoing up and down The pauper jostled the peacock-dressed, Rags and a Paquin gown ; A girl and I, as the crowd went by, Watched from a window with lazy eye Years ago, when our hearts were high And we lived in London Town. Sweet was the hum of the hansoms then, Sweet was the harness chink, And the lust of life in a maze of men What if we'd paused to think ? Think ? why nay ! 'twas a summer's day Long ago, when the world was gay, Long ago, ere I sailed away Over the ocean's brink. So down she sat in the wicker seat Where the sunlight flecked her face, And I placed a stool for her dainty feet With their film of cobweb lace. 15 16 A WINDOW IN PICCADILLY Little we knew of the Great Karoo, Or African Kings of Bungaboo Naught we had in the world to do But dream for a moment's space. She was a Chancery Ward and I Hadn't a cent, alack Still, we made up our minds to fly, Wed, and never come back But fate, or spite, or the devil's delight Sent me a cablegram that night And I sailed for Beira, vanishing quite Out of the beaten track, So the lady married a Carpet Knight And I got hitched to a black. DREAMS, IDLE DREAMS " There is a railroad now under construction in South- West Africa which will eventually shorten the journey between Lon- don and Pretoria or Bulawayo by three thousand miles . . . the Benguella Railway, which is to provide the direct communi- cation between the west coast at Lobito Bay and the phenome- nally rich copper deposits at Katanga . . . will form the first link in the chain." The Sketch. YE who designed the C.G.R., Ye who evolved the Train- de-luxe, And planned the dainty dining car, And chartered staffs of guards and cooks- Take heed for ye have had your day 1 We much prefer Lobito Bay. No longer, in the years in view, We'll book our coupes to the Cape No longer in the dull Karoo Sit somnolently on the gape Our route should be extremely gay From Beira to Lobito Bay. 2 w 18 DREAMS, IDLE DREAMS For elephants will gambol by, And zebra flirt their gleesome tails, And graceful hippopotami Will play the devil with the rails, And pigmy heathen, in dismay, Will book from Congo to the Bay. Meantime the track is surveyed, true And dotted lines define the dream, And that's about as far as you Or I can profit by the scheme Perhaps, in time, Rhodesians may Reach Heaven by Lobito Bay. VELD FANCIES IK the depths of the night, there are visions that come When the stars are alight, and the veld is a-hum With the musical murmur of beetles and the voices of daytime are dumb. There are spirits that speak to my slumbering ear, There are branches that creak that are phantoms that peer Through the tangle of quivering grasses and hosts of the dead that can hear. They are visions of days that have died and a train In a flickering maze of the days that remain They are ghosts of the days that old destiny chased, and caught up, and has slain. For the fires are red, and the embers aglow, And the boughs overhead, in their whisperings low Sing songs of the Godless Forgotten and lays of the lost long-ago. 18 20 VELD FANCIES They sing of the sum of the years I have planned, Of the tramp and the hum of the hurrying Strand Of the lesson of London forgotten, alas ! in a heathenish land. Of the revels to hold when the dawning was dim Of dames that were bold and of dames that were prim, Of hansoms, and harpies, and so on a hazy, heretical hymn. So, the stars are alight and the moonbeams look down In the depths of the night out of touch of the town And the balance of cash in my pocket's a stamp and a bad half-a-crown ! THE SONG OF THE SHIRT " Rhodesians would appear to have no clothes but shirts and trousers." Weekly Paper. LET those who will be in the mode Let those who can affect the swell For me, the veld is my abode, With daga huts wherein to dwell I care not if the tailors tell Of men with fearful fashions girt My present kit becomes me well A pair of trousers and a shirt The dainty dandy overseas In purple and fine linen decked May glance, perchance, askance at these, And marvel at the quaint effect I lodge no claim to be correct, Nor can his gibes my feelings hurt So long as I may still select A pair of trousers and a shirt. 22 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT Why should a man enslave his soul, His self-respect and e'en his purse To garments that, upon the whole, Induce the incidental curse ? The trim patrician still may nurse His well-stocked wardrobe for a cert. I hold that I am none the worse Arrayed in trousers and a shirt. I/ENVOI. So ! Let me cling to decent togs Lest, in the end, I wear a skirt, And, flinging wisdom to the dogs, Should pawn my trousers and my shirt ! FOR WOMEN ONLY LAND SETTLEMENT IN RHODESIA. RIDKR HAGGARD'S REPORT CONDEMNED. LONDON, June 2oth. The Committee which is considering Mr. Rider Haggard's report upon the settlement of the surplus population of the British cities in the colonies condemns the report and recom- mends the Government to take no steps to further any scheme of colonisation just at present, but grants should be given to aid emigration. The Committee is unable to express an opinion on the prospects of emigration to Rhodesia, but to all appearances tnre is no opening in South Africa generally, except for women, ADIEU, the dreams, the rosy schemes, The plans of Mr. Rider Haggard For bedding out the useless tout, And shipping us the languid laggard " No opening can be found for Man,"- No chance for sanguine emigration ! Not sons of Earls but, simply Girh Must be our staple importation. 24 FOR WOMEN ONLY And yet, the sphere of woman here Is hardly more than ornamental To swish the skirt : to smile : to flirt, To captivate the detrimental ! To spend our cash, to cook our hash; To sew for us the sportive button, To reign within the house of tin, And coax our goat to taste like mutton. Yet still, we fear, the day draws near When Women will no longer heed us, When beings in skirts will scorn our shirts, And bid the heathen savage feed us : They may eject the present sect Of Legislators (should we grudge it ?), May deal us smacks in Income Tax, And even re-adjust the budget ! Perhaps, we need not fear, indeed ! This dim, mysterious committee May plan to aid the Marriage Trade, And, if they don't well, more's the pity ! Perhaps they think to lessen drink, To tame the Bachelor Colonial, And callow youth may find, in truth, The scheme is purely matrimonial ! THE PACE OF THE OX WHAT do we know (and what do we care) of Time and his silver scythe ? Since there is always time to spare so long as a man's alive : The world may come, and the world may go, and the world may whistle by, But the Pace of the Ox is steady (and slow), and life is a lullaby. What do we know of the city's scorn, the hum of the world amaze, Hot-foot [haste, and the fevered dawn, and forgot- ten yesterdays ? Men may strain and women may strive in busier lands to-day, But the Pace of the Ox is the pace to thrive in the land of veld and vlei. Crimson dawn in the Eastern sky, purple glow in the West, Thus it is that the days go by, bringing their meed of rest 2 THE PACE OF THE OX The future's hidden behind the veil, and the past is still the past But the Pace of the Ox is the sliding scale that measures our work at last. The song of the ships is far to hear, the hum of the world is dead, And lotus-life in a drowsy year our benison instead ; Why should we push the world along, live in a whirl of flame, When the Pace of the Ox it steady and strong and the end is just the same ? SUNDOWN DIM desires of red and gold, Shadowy fears on a floating air, And never a soft white hand to hold, Never a kiss like those of old, Or a scent of woven hair. Days that dawn in a mist of grey, Nights that throb with a noisy hum, Hours that trudge their leaden way, And what does it boot to kneel, and pray When the Gods themselves are dumb ? Out of the garden-land of dreams, Down the paths that we knew so well, Over the stones of the sleepy streams I passed alone, and for ever, it seems Into a haunted hell. 28 SUNDOWN Out of the wide, warm world of things Into the wind-swept spaces here, Where Death patrols with his sable wings, And the very voice of the bird that sings Is harsh to an English ear. God ! (if ever a God there be) Look you down on the world of men Send me the woman oversea To tarry awhile in Hell with me, And Hell shall be Heaven then. A REMINDER ON the crest of the hills that are bitten With outcrops of granite and grey With the shadows that spirits have smitten In years that have stolen away In silence that teems with tradition, A silence where ghosts glimmer forth With forecasts of future fruition, Lies he who once looked to the North. 'Twas his to have fashioned the valleys In semblance of subsequent weal And, braving their ghosts and their malice, To summon their spirits to heel 'Twas his to have braved, in a measure, The pulse of their primitive wrath, To clutch from the silence the treasure, En route for the Uttermost North. 99 30 A REMINDER 'Twas his as God willed it to sicken, While blood was still hot in his veins- Surrendering questions that quicken, To die and relinquish the reins His still is the brain that can guide us 'Mid turmoil of fugitive froth- He sleeps on a kopje beside us, And dreams of the Road to the North. THE OUT-STATION SHADOWS of delicate dawning are creeping beneath the trees, Mystical murmurs of morning are floating upon the breeze There's joy in the City's clamour pageants of pleasure, and glamour, But nevertheless, my masters, there are worthier things than these ! Mellowed by dawning and distance the songs of the women arise, Zephyrs astir in the branches are fresh from the glittering skies, Lust, and the gold that has bought it Gain, and the men who have sought it These are as nothing, my masters, to dwellerf in Paradise. Line upon line of lilies breaking the leafy screen, And the ivory and the crimson of roses scattered between n *2 THE OUT-STATION You, who must buy your flowers, think of the sunlit hours Out on the Lonely Stations set in the deserts of green. / What do you offer, truly, laying the counters down ? A motor-car or a mansion ? a yacht, or a Paris gown ? What if we know your prices ? what if no bribe entices Those who may live at their leisure out of the clutch of the Town ? THE VEERING OF THE VANE TWINKLE of lights in a wall of fog, Rattle of horses' hoofs, And a thousand window-panes agog In the line of serried roofs The crowded town, with its streets a-roar, The buzz, and the busy hum, And it's oh! for dusk on the veld once more, The pulse of the tribal drwaa 1 We look for leave in the sweating days We save and the years go by, Till the heart cries out at the long delays Under a copper sky Then when the lank, lean years are dead, And we come to our own again, 'Tis oh ! for the bat's wing overhead, The moon on the midnight plain I 3 i 84 THE TEERING OF THE VANE We'll curse the Land that is cursed of Fate, Rending it tooth and nail, Till we come, at length, to the Open Gate, The sea, where the tall ships sail We'll lift our heads and we'll slip the yoke, And the vane will veer anew ! Twill be oh 1 for the scent of the curling smoke And the camping grounds we knew ! OF AN ENGLISH ROOM % I KNOW a room that seems to call to me, A room in England, out across the sea, A room where many golden hours have sped Four walls thick curtained with a thousand charms, Hung with sweet memories of soft, clinging arms Thronged with dim ghosts of kisses, cold and dead. I see it yet its walls of flowered blue, Its square-topped window when the sun looked through It seemed like some blue cave beneath the sea ; And he came often came with sunbeams fond To kiss your picture on the wall beyond I wonder if he used to envy me ? How oft I've heard your footstep on the stair And seen you standing on the lintel there In crimson coat with sombre collar-hood ! A hood that hugged your cheeks and left them pale Yet softly gleaming through your gauzy veil Like twin, white lilies in a midnight wood. 36 36 OF AN ENGLISH ROOM How often, too, when things were out of gear And all the world seemed grey, I've sought you here And found you lying as I loved you beat How oft you've slain my bogies with a smile, Running dear fingers through my hair the while, Or sighed, and pinned your flowers to my breast 1 Then, when the winds were cold and nights were dark I'd shut them out, and lean to catch the spark That lit your eyes like glow-worms in the South ; And, as a bud late shaken from the dew, You'd lift your face, whose every curve I knew, To press your soft, warm kisses on my mouth. Ah ! that was long ago ! and here am I Living alone beneath an alien sky While you lie far away across the sea But, in the nights, when all the world is gloom My thoughts, like ghosts that cannot change their doom, Troop back again to haunt that silent room, That little room where Heaven used to be. REMEMBRANCE You wrote in haste a single, hurried page, And yet, perhaps, more fit than close-packed ream* To guard, and garner up our golden dreams And the high hopes of both our hearts to gauge- Dreams may be faint and fleeting phantoms yet Though sad to dream, 'tis sadder to forget. It may be that the years will mock our ease My path may still lie here, in Southern lands 'Mid heathen peoples, over sun-parched sands, And yours in your green garden of the seas Our smiles may fade in tears, and dim regret Must we, for that, turn craven and forget ? Do men rush forth to greet a hated guest ? Do evening shadows cloud the world at noon ? Sorrow may come and will and all too soon We'll stand our ground and meet it. For the rest We hold in pledge that year when first we met Let us dream on. We never need forget. 87 SHADOW OF ANY PORT IN AFRICA A BY-WAY on the highway of the sea, A green-clad lane that leads to silent bay* And palm-crowned headlands, where the world is free To smile at peace amid the close-drawn maze Of tropic foliage, and a thousand palms Girdle the roadstead with their clinging arms. 'Twas thus I anchored, in a summer dawn, Wind-tossed, and weary of the moaning deep Fitful, and sad of soul, and travel worn Thus came I to the Citadel of Sleep, And drew soft comfort from the languid breeze Dowered with fragrance of the crested trees. Tall, phantom dhows stood out against the green Like gaunt, misshapen bats with drooping wings Of brown and grey that jarred upon the scene Like discord in the tune of one who sings Of love, and life, and, pausing for a breath, Finds that the Fates have sold his love to Death. u 42 OF ANY PORT IN AFRICA So, then, we rowed across the still lagoon And climbed the tottering steps below the quay Where dusky heathens strummed the endless tune Of wistful woe that merges into glee In eerie melody so, gained a grove That nested softly on the hills above. Fronting us lay a patch of tenderest green With tiny, dotted huts of sober grey Most quaintly Quaker-like amid a scene Where all the rest wore Nature's fete array, And girls with swaddled babies on their backs Passed and repassed along the forest tracks. ON PATROL BLOTS of grey and yellow, tufts of sombre green, Miles and miles of level stretching in between Purple hills behind me, purple hills before And a sky ablaze with level rays, And a parching scrub for floor, While the dawn starts up in the heavens, And the shadows are no more. Downward to the river, upward to the hill, Through the waving grasstops where the world is still, Onward spin the pathways, winding off the reel They twist and curl, till the head's a-whirl, And cramped with bands of steel, And morning sits in the heavens Hell's secret to reveal. The hills that were but shadows are looming near to hand, But others have replaced them beyond the belt of sand ; 44 ON PATROL The trees that seemed to flicker upon the rim of sky Have taken wings, like living things, And perched themselves anigh, And noon is high in the heavens, And all the world's a sigh. Ah! for a stretch of cornfield, a drowsy Surrey lane To float across the vision of this accursed plain ! I knew a bank of roses once, a garden of delight Where lilies grew, and pansies, too, And marigolds alight But there's ne'er a cloud in the heavens, And the past is shut from sight. And so, at last the hut-tops peer out amid the trees, And heathen words of greeting come floating on the breeze ; Behind the belt of brushwood dark shadows come and go, Where swaddled shapes, like dancing apes, Come forth to mouth and mow The twilight broods in the heavens, And all the West's aglow. ON PATROL 45 Down in the crimson ashes the branches crack and spit ; Across the screen of fire the dusky shadows flit I heed them not, for others are crowding fast to hand, Ghosts in a maze of lamplit blaze Along the crowded Strand But night is Queen of the heavens, And this is Heathen- Land I THE SONG OF THE TRANSPORT RIDER I HAVE sniffed the scent of the open vlei When the sun climbed up the hill, And I've heard the song of the new-born day When all the world was still ; I have trampled the copse at the river's brink Where the dappled buck lie down, But give me the lights and the harness-chink And the glamour of London Town. I have tramped to the hum of the wagon wheels When the span trudged up the plain, And couched with things that the night reveals When the twilight comes again ; I have camped alone when the silent moon Crept up in her silver gown, But give me the whirl and the madding tune And the hum of London Town. m I have known the trek 'neath the burning sun When the miles reel out on end, And I've parched with fever with ne'er a one To cool my brow as a friend ; I have drunk the reek of the foetid air, And Despair, with her thorny crown, Has press'd my brain but my heart's still there At the core of London Town. I have supped with Death in a crazy hut When a man went forth to hell (For he sold his soul to an inky slut And the tale is ill to tell) ; I have seen men drink till the serpents came Speckled and green and brown, And have heard them shriek in the devil's name For the lusts of London Town. I have seen dark kopjes that ran with blood In the chill before the dawn, When men lay down in the crimson mud With their bodies rent and torn ; I have cursed this land that was cursed of fate Ere it earned the White Man's frown, And fain, ere I come to the Narrow Gate, Would I look on London Town, THE WHITE KAFIR ONCE I was known in the Big White Land, In the come and go of Society's show ; But most are dead that have grasped my hand, And the rest they care not, nor understand " Burton ? " they say ; " gone in on the Rand A rolling stone, you know ! " But here I sit in M'bonga's kraal, Free as the air, with devil a care, Up in the thatch, where the shadows fall, The lizards and spiders scurry and crawl And snakes lie coiled in the crumbling wall Under the daga there. Up at the peep of the early dawn, Down to the spring where the wildfowl sing : Breakfast then, when the water's drawn, And the wood is hewn and the mealies shorn Of their outer husking of bearded corn : Would I change with a crbwned king ? THE WHITE KAFIR 49 Nay ! Not I ! 'tis a gorgeous life ! The scent of the vlei at break of day, A smooth-flanked, ebony girl for a wife And naught of the din and scurry and strife That reign where the noise of the world is rife Look where the piccanins play 1 That one, chubby and shorn of pate, Is Mambo's son he can barely run The pot-bellied imp with the shambling gait Was spawned, I fear, by a twist of fate, For his mother had stolen a young girl's mate And put out her eyes in fun ! Then when the moon climbs up the hill, They bring my beer to the grass-mat here ; Heady and sour it is if you will, But I sit and guzzle and smoke and swill, And the mirth of the girls comes clear and shrill And the cricket jars my ear. How do I look and dress, you say ? A rug, once brown, from the stores in the town. And a yard of limbo, gaudy and gay, Cover my bones from the light of day As for the rest, I am growing grey, And possibly tumble-down. 4 60 THE WHITE KAFIR What I " do I fear the scorn of my race ? " What odds to me, if the life is free ? Must I dread the sneer on the swollen face Of a drunken trader in evil case ? And yet I know of a bundle of lace Whose scorn would be ill to see ! Still the devil must tend his own what then ? I jibe and jest, and laugh with the best, They feared me at first, these animal men, For the ways of the white are beyond their ken, And for one to choose to couch in their den Was strange enough to digest. But now we meet with a friendly grin, Or a jovial grunt out there in the front Of my hut, by the gum-tree tall and thin, I lay my meats and I stretch my skin And the ebony swine come trooping in To talk of the latest hunt So the months glide on with naught to quote Save a jovial crime from time to time ; Last night a girl slit her lover's throat From dread of the Witchman's luring note, And Ndanda collared a neighbour's goat And they buried him deep in slime. THE WHITE KAFIR 51 Ha I 'tis a golden life I wis ; To snore and to drink no need to think What can a man hold greater bliss ? For fifteen years I have lived like this, And all for the sake of the white girl's kiss That thrust me over the brink. Fifteen years ! 'tis fifty, I swear, Since I left the docks with a gaping box, A letter or two, and a grim despair And a faded ringlet of golden hair, And little enough of cash to spare, To shield me from fortune's knocks. Fifteen years and again to-night The bats flit by in the crimson sky 'Tis true she was fickle and cruelly light, But fair ay, fair, and wondrous white, And I ? I would grovel again in her sight And crouch at her feet and lie. Bah ! 'tis fever I've got no doubt, Shakes again from yesterday's rain- Is that old Jimmy, my College scout? M'koma, eh ? You rotten old tout ! God I the lamps in the sky are out ! Well ! death is a cure for pain I DINGES AND I DIKOES and I were trading once, up north by the Zambesi ; Kafir truck you must understand, The things that "take" in this cursed land- Beads of yellow and beads of blue, Knives and matches and limbo, too, To tickle the taste of a heathen crew (Which isn't so blighted easy) Down by the store the river ran by, And we used to watch it, Dinges and I. Dinges (his name was really one well known in Piccadilly), Dinges, I say, was an Oxford man Who'd spent his cash as a gentleman can On various things, including Wine, Women, and W : ckedness, which combine To ultimate bankruptcy in fine, His relatives soon grew chilly ; Whereupon, Dinges said goodbye, And we started trading, Dinges and I. DINGES AND I 53 As for myself, no occupation could be too de- grading ; I'd planted nuts in the Solomon Isles, And mixed with men who had made their piles In Queensland, Java, and far Peru ; I'd kept a store in the Great Karoo, And, finding nothing better to do, Had finally plumped for trading; The which accounts for the how and the why Of the present position of Dinges and I. Three round huts, where the rain came in serenely by the bucket, Lime within, and daga without, And an old tin tub for a waterspout, Gravel and sand and a cock-eyed gate Composed the whole of our joint estate ; I've often sat and marvelled of late However it was we stuck it- But still, we sat till the clouds rolled by And murmured blasphemies, Dinges and I. It wasn't the life that you would choose in cool deliberation, For a man gets most uncommonly thin On bully-beef that hums in the tin When whisky's in it's a case of " snakes," 64 DINGES AND I And when it's out it's a matter of shakes, And life on the whole resemblance takes To premature damnation However, it wasn't much use to cry, And so we stayed there, Dinges and I. It chanced one night that Dinges was down with fever pretty badly ; Temperature up to a hundred and four (You'll know the game if you've been there before^ Head like a stove, and mouth like a drain, And a kind of a dull, all-overish pain, While up on the roof that fiendish rain Was beating a tattoo madly ; We slept in the only hut that was dry, The Fever Devil and Dinges and I. Suddenly up sat Dinges in bed his wits were a trifle hazy, Clutched my arm with a grip that burned, Round in the cartel-bed he turned : " Madge ! " he cried, " you have come at last Out of the dear old misty past? God is good ! " and his breath came fast 1 thought the fellow was crazy, Until I turned with a sort of cry We had a companion, Dinges and I. DINGES AND I 55 A slip of a girl she was, in grey, with a Bond Street air about her, Slender and tall with eyes of blue That seemed to fix you and help you too, The sort of a girl you meet in Town With the Church Paraders up and down, And turn to look at the cut of her gown ; A regular out-and-outer. An angel-girl, plump out of the sky, We sat and looked at her, Binges and I. Down by the bed she knelt, and I I didn't feel keen on prying ! The hut was smoky and badly lit, And somehow, things didn't seem to fit. Suddenly up sat Dinges again, There came a lull in the cursed rain, And I heard him speaking, quiet and plain, " Ridiculous easy, dying ! " And down he sank with a bit of a sigh, We'd parted for ever, Dinges and I. Of all the rest of that night I have uncommonly hazy notions ; When sun-up came I was there alone, With Dinges lying as cold as a stone ; As for the girl, there wasn't a trace 56 DINGES AND I Of her Bond Street gown or her angel face (I reckon you'll say 'twas a flagrant case Of superabundant potions ? As a matter of fact for weeks gone by IVe'd seen no liquor, Dinges and I). As for myself, I don't pretend to proffer an ex- planation I buried Dinges at dawn of day, Packed up my traps and trekked away, Somehow I didn't feel keen to stay On that particular station ; For, whatever he'd been in the days gone by, We had been pally, Dinges and I. Whether the girl was ghost or flesh is matter that needs digestion ; But a year or two after Dinges had died I found a photograph, tucked inside A smoking jacket he used to wear, Wrapped with a twisted strand of hair The face was the face of the girl, I'd swear, And the rest is beside the question. I suppose he'd loved her and said goodbye, And her soul had guessed where he came to die But we'd never discussed her, Dinges and I. A BALLAD OF THE B.M.R. DOWN in the land where heathens are, Down in the swamps where white men stew, Amid the woods that stretch afar, Amid the creepers dank with dew The Line runs out perchance, askew, And drunkenly designed but, ah ! In days gone by was work to do Upon the lonely B.M.R. ! The Gates of Death were held ajar The pegs that mark the mileage too Have stood for tombstones near and far Ghosts of a grimy, shrivelled crew, The sun looked down from out the blue Out of the night looked down the star, And marked where men had drifted through The death-trap of the B.M.R, er 58 A BALLAD OP THE B.M.R Each bolt, each nut, each metal bar, Could tell a story grim but true And where the gangers' houses are Maybe are ghosts of dead men too Ghosts of the men who worked and knew- The fever-swamp, the sickening jar That came when life was rusted through Upon the lonely B.M.R. L'ENVOI. Lo ! we may scoff we often do And jest at engine, truck, and ear- But must we then forget the few Who made for us the B.M.R. ? DAWN IN THE HUT DEAREST, the night fades into grey One little hour, and then the dawn Will flaunt a face of flaming scorn Into the hut wherein we lay ; Deep in the burning heat of day Our dreams will droop, all overborne By mocking voices of the morn Come, kiss me, ere the night's away 1 Up in the thatch the lizards play, 'Mid clatter of the crumbling walls ; The filmy shadow creeps and falls On grass and poles in disarray The Gods indeed have said their say, And, through a silence that appals The evil jackal slinks and calls So, kiss me, ere the night's away. 69 60 DAWN IN THE HUT See where the sentry mealies sway Across the flimsy limbo pane, Hark, even now, the dim refrain Of waking birds, alert and gay We cannot bid the shadows stay, We cannot claim the dark again, And love must needs be lost in vain- Come, kiss me, ere the night's away. AFRICAN AUTUMN L-, OK up, man ! laugh ! Why snivel and sigh That Winter's due, and the leaf's at the fall ? Why shake your fist at the leaden sky, And frown at the fate that mocks us all ? The Winter's due, and the leaf's at the fall, The grasses droop as the wind stalks by, And, sweet as wine, or bitter as gall, The day must come when the cup runs dry. Why shake your fist at the leaden sky, And whine for the days beyond recall, The dear, dead days that no gold can buy, Our Hell being vast, our Heaven but small ? Why frown at the fate that mocks us all, Or strive, or strain, till the pulse beats high, Since Winter's due and the leaf's at the fall, And the end of it all is a brief goodbye ? a BY THE ROADSIDE TATTERED, and torn, and rent, with ragged roof And poles awry, The hut stood silent, sombre and aloof As I rode by. Red cacti, too, twined out in fleshy bands About the place, That might, I thought, have scarred with groping hands The dead man's face. Through all the silence, there was ne'er a sound Of human life But rank, green grasses rioted around And weeds were rife. BY THE ROADSIDE 63 Only I knew that one had built the place With hopes afire, Spurred by the memory of an absent face And young desire. And thought to wrest a living from the wild, And, fancy free, To call a woman almost, then, a child, Across the sea. But those dim ghosts that suck the souls of men Had drained him dry Had stretched his brain to snapping-point and then Had let him lie. Silent and still. And yet, the hut stood there In grim disdain Of broken lives, and premature despair, And useless pain. So, in a senseless fury at the thought, I set alight The ragged thatch, and watched it, as 'twas caught Up in the night. 4 BY THE ROADSIDE Red tongues of fire flickered overhead, And forked, and shone "A funeral pile," I muttered, u for the dead," As I rode on. THE RING-FENCE (In Memory of a Dead Elephant-Hunter.) AT first in other worlds, it seemed the wilderness was free, A man might go where'er he dreamed, nor pause to pay the fee, Out of the Herd might take his toll earned at the risk of death, Wander afar beyond control caressed by Nature's breath The world was wide the Herds were strong, and killing was no sin, No Law but sportsmanship he knew no Ring- Fence hemmed him in. And so, he trod the wider ways far from the city crowd And threaded Nature's tropic maze, thinking his thoughts aloud, Followed the Herd from dawn to duak, and slept from dusk to dawn 5 66 THE RING-FENCE Pillowed upon a gleaming tusk in tangled wastes of thorn. . . . But those who frame the Laws of Men were plotting in his track Till, east and west and south and north the Ring- Fence turned him back. Now, though the world is just as wide, though Herds are still the same, Though seas of grasses still divide before the rush of game From "British East" to "German West," from Congo to Karoo, There is no gap to fail the test and let the hunter through. "Thou shalt not kill the Elephant" so runs the Law to-day " Hang up thy battered bandolier ! The Ring- Fence bars the way ! " Hang up thy battered bandolier, and let the rifle rust, For now the dreams of yesteryear and all they held in trust Must take the place of strenuous days and starlit nights of old, THE RING-FENCE 07 Of morning mists, and noontide blaze, and weari- ness and cold No more the Tusker of those dreamt shall charge, with trunk encurled, No more, at dawn, thou'lt pace the paths with dancing dew empearled No more crouch low and test the wind the Ring-Fence hems the world 1 THE PLACE WHERE THE ELEPHANTS DIE HIDDEN away from the haunts of men, west of a widespread Lake Out of the scope of human ken, in tangled thicket and brake, 'Mid arching trees where a foetid breeze ruffles the ragged sky, Is the sombre place where the vanishing ract of the Elephants come to die. Many a mighty Lord of Herd, massive of tusk and limb, Has crept away at the whispered word that signified death to him Driven by doom to the murky gloom where the wheeling vultures fly, Through buffet and blast he has come at last to the Place where the Elephants die. 68 Pile upon pile of bleaching bone, and a foul, miasmic breath With now and again a mighty moan to break on the hush of death Sluggish streams, and the silver beams of a silent moon on high God forfend I should meet my end in the Place where the Elephants die ! Once, they say, in the olden days a venturesome man set forth, Threaded a path by devious ways, westward and south and north, Dallied with Death at every breath while many a moon went by Till he found the brake by the Silent Lake where the Elephants come to die. Tusk upon tusk lay whitely there, under a twisted tree, Wealth of the world, bleached stark and bare and he gazed upon his fee Dreaming the dream of a mighty scheme and ambition fluttered high Till he sank, and slept and the rumour crept through the Place where the Elephants die. 70 WHERE THE ELEPHANTS DIE the Elephant Clan were close at heel for the place was theirs to hold, Sacrosanct to the common weal, out of the mists of old And the word went forth from south to north, and the herds came thundering by To kill the Man who had braved the Clan in the Place where they came to die. Only a native tale, you say, laughing in light disdain ? Maybe so but of what avail to jest when the facts are plain ? Let him who has found on his camping ground or under the open sky One elephant dead then shake his head at " The Place where the Elephants die ! " EXILE DEAR, they are dead, the years that might have been ; Our lives burn low, like lamps at dawn of day, And many an ocean depth lies dark between, And many a mountain bars our right of way. God knows, my prison land is fair and sweet, A flower-fragrant garden of the South But flowers fade! My lips are faint to greet The softness of the petals of your mouth. What boots this land with all its subtle charms ? What use are flowers when the heart is dead ? Can sunbeams warm me like your soft, white arms, Or birds bring back the music that has fled ? No dawn may flood the world with golden rain, And sunset spring to clasp the blushing air Only the pitying breezes waft again The perfume of th* tendrils of your hair. 72 EXILE Dear breezes! can it be that they have yearned To learn our secret, and now stand confessed ? Can hot Sirocco once have flamed and burned With love of some faint Zephyr of the West ? Sadly the day lags on from far and near Come heathen songs of men who still rejoice I sit apart in shadowland and hear The echo of the music of your voice. They say Love's ladder spans from Earth to Hell, From Hell to Heaven, from Heaven back to Earth- Could it but bridge this yawning ocean-well That gapes between our sorrow and our mirth ! When twilight comes, I seem to see your face Framed in the hanging star-lamps of the skies, And, through the gloom, I strive again to trace The glamour of the lovelight in your eyes. The days grind on, each grimmer than the last, Each a red scourge, with thongs of molten lead, Each thong a biting memory of the past, And yet I still thank God I am not dead. EXILE 73 For when Night hangs her curtains round the world And all is silent save the moaning sea, And all the cloud-ships' lacy sails are furled, Then, sweetheart, in my dreams you come to me. My senses reel, and all my pulses leap, And all my sheaves of sorrows fall apart Like petals of blown roses for in sleep I feel again the beating of your heart. SOUVENIRS THERE they lie on the table, all in a tumbled heap, And I turn them over and over, nights when the world's asleep. They bring a thousand fancies back to my mind again, Bitter-sweet in the turmoil of thunder and whistling rain. Here is a withered rosebud, plucked in an English bower It lay on her breast one evening would I had been the flower I There is a tattered ribbon that nestled amid her hair, And I would it had been my fortune to bury my sorrows there. T4 SOUVENIRS 76 A crumpled glove that often has fondled her little hand A ring and a faded letter and this is a heathen land! She stands again before me as she did in that golden year When I gathered these pitiful relics and kept them four souvenir. HEIMLUST To wake at nights and hear the jackals calling, To lie and count the hours till the dawn, To hearken to the dead, dry branches falling, To curse the birds that waken with the morn And watch the lizards creep from pole to pole That is the burden of the restless soul. To fall asleep, worn out with fruitless longing, And roam again in dreams through veld and vlei, Where endless, dusky, heathen hordes are throng- ing And, waking, find again the arid day To loathe each bond that bars the far-off goal This is the burden of the restless soul. To hear a summons in each swaying flower, To find a token in each stagnant stream, H HEIMLUST 77 To dread the clang of every new-born hour, And barter substance for a golden dream, To sit and wait and watch the cloud-ships roll This is the burden of the restless soul. To know each stick and stone that hems your dwelling, To hate the squalid hut that ranks as home, To know that every whispered wind is telling Tales of an Island set amid the foam To hear in dreams a quiet church-bell toll This is the burden of the restless soul To welcome death itself as some new sorrow, Cursing the granite hills, the open plain, Building dream-castles for a phantom morrow, To hurl them down, and pile them once again With fevered pulse that beats beyond coa- trol This is the burden of the restless soul. OUT OF THE VLEI OUT of the Vlei, when the veld is burning, Out and away to the Northern lands Where life's a-hum, and the wheels are turning, Souls stretch out with their shadow-hands Out of the Vlei, the heart, still sighing, Turns from the dreary, dying day Into the town where the fog is lying, Out of the Vlei. Out of the Vlei, when the sun is gazing Down from a sky of burnished steel, Scents rise up, and old lusts are blazing, Things that summon our souls to heel. Down in the Vlei we may still remember Years that mock us in Memory's way, Fan the spark from the glowing ember Down in the Vlei. OUT OF THE VLBI 79 Out of the Vlei, we may chance to wander Into the clutch of a teeming town, Taste the sweets of a life beyond her, Drape the past in a dreary gown Though there be many a dream to daunt us, Many a future debt to pay, Still, there are ghosts that rise to haunt us Out of the Vlei. BLACK MAN'S TWILIGHT THE DAHA-SMOKER OVER across the river the world's asleep to-night, With mealie-leaves a-quiver, and glow-worm lamps alight ; Hark to the jackals howling, and the tawny lions prowling And the old grey wolf a-growling, where the fire- brands are bright. Look where the white road wanders away beneath the moon, Look where the leafage squanders its wealth of slumber-tune, The drowsy Weed has sought me with dreams that the Gods have taught me Dreams that the Daha's brought me, a drowsy, dreamy boon. Am I asleep or waking ? I hardly know nor care, Only the leaves are quaking up on the kopje there ; 84 THE DAHA-SMOKER Firet are redly dying in huts where the men are lying, And over it all's the sighing of ghosts in the haunted air. Come 1 let the glowing embers press down upon the bowl ! What boots it to remember the striving and the toll Of tears the Gods require, of sacrificial fire They neither dream nor tire ; and so, they hunt the soul. But I am old and weary, have buried many a wife, And winter-time is dreary, the winds as keen as a knife ; Never a soul comes nigh me, even the children fly me, Only the Daha's by me, to lend me a grip on life. 4 Nama is long forgotten ; Zushe the bride has flown ; The sons that I have begotten have taken wives of their own ; THE DAHA-SMOKER 85 By day, I list to the clatter of women's pots, and their chatter By night but what does it matter ? my pipe and I are alone. The huts of the kraal have vanished, caught up in a web of space, And the sentry trees are banished from round about the place : Through a belt of flame and fire, still hovering ever higher, On wings that will never tire, I circle the world apace. Even our Gods are dying, fading swiftly away, And the White Man, peering and prying, teaches us how to pray ; The Spirits have lost their power, the blood in our veins is sour And the Goddess-Queen of the hour is Daha the Weed, I say ! Daha, the great Dream-Mother, taking men to her breast : What should we want with other, when we can creep to rest 86 THE DAHA-SMOKER With soft, green leaves to hold us, and the curling smoke to enfold us ? But the white-faced Teacher told us his God and his creed were best 1 So, let me turn to slumber, shuttering out the sight Of the Ghost Trees none may number, and the silver moon's pale might Redly the fire's gleaming, and my brain with fancies teeming, As I float in the Land of Dreaming on wings of the World's Delight THE SHADOW-GIRL DOWN by the well she stood, a Shadow-Girl Carved out of ebony, against a sky Of crimson, blue, dull gold, and soft grey pearl Where baby clouds hung low and drifted by Athwart the rising whiteness of the moon, And ever came the cadence of the tune Thut throbs at twilight when the world's asigh. Only a Shade amid the shadows, she, Silent and slender, supple and serene A maiden from the Land of Used-to-Be. A dusky, heathen goddess, that had been Brought back by the forgotten hand of Fate, Out of the World of Shadows, through the gate That frowns betwixt Man and Eternity. Nude as a statue, save the strip that graced Her woman's modesty a dappled hide Tricked out with gaudy beads, that clasped her waist, 81 88 THE SHADOW-GIRL Gay bangles at her wrists, and naught beside Only a child, were she of lighter hue, And yet, it seemed, one gazed at her, and knew That Grief and she had learnt what might betide. Only a child that is, as children go Among the White Man's womankind and still Her fate was settled in the long ago Brought forth, and bought, and sold, she'd learnt the will Of some lean, blanket-swaddled, human swine Weighed in the balance with the weight of kine, This Woman-child had learnt life's good and ill. Ah, well, her Gods have learnt their trade, no doubt ; What must be, must and is and there's an end! Only, it seems, perhaps that round about In dusty corners, there is much to mend Down in the shadows of her dusky eyes Methought I caught a glimpse of sacrifice, A kind of dull, dumb yearning for a friend. THE SHADOW-GIRL 89 Twas but an instant that I watched her so, And then, the dim, soft twilight seemed to curl Around about the place the afterglow Put off its robe of blue and gold and pearl The stars peeped out up in the distant sky, And swinging up her brimming gourd on high, Into the shadows fled my Shadow-Girl. THE RIVER OF FATE RIVER of Fate, thy banks are strewn with rushes, And gleaming lilies float upon thy breast ; Softly the murmur of the night-wind hushes Thy insect-choirs into dreamy rest ; Mother of Doom ! Tshadzire, we descry thee, Proud Nyashano halts in silent awe, Trembling, aghast, thy children draw anigh thee To tempt the hidden fate that lies in store. River of Fate ! Behold the. Tribesmen greet thee, Bending the knee, beseechingly entreat thee ! Grant that the King, unscathed, may reach the shore ! Raise we the King aloft upon our shoulders, Binding his eyes to hide the faintest gleam ; Picking a flimsy way across the boulders To thwart the hidden magic of the stream ; Let the dark Tribesmen raise their strident chorus, Shouting and singing till the Heavens ring, For weary ways and heavy lie before us, 90 THE RIVER OF FATE 91 And destiny draws close about the King. River of Fate ! behold, the Tribesmen greet thee, Bending the knee, beseechingly entreat thee ! Grant that the Gods may prize the gifts we bring ! Old as the forests older ! is the saying ; "The King shall neither gaze, nor step on stone, But pass with songs of men and tom-toms braying, Or, sightless, shall be driven from his throne." River of Fate ! unweary and unending, Thy twisting streams wind onward silently, Ever through veld and vlei their white way wending To where broad Sabi flashes to the sea i River of Fate ! behold the Tribesmen greet thee, Bending the knee beseechingly entreat thee ! Grant that no harm befall the King through thee! V.B. Amongst Chief Nyashano's people a belief exists to this day that the Chief, when crossing the Tshadzire stream, must be blindfolded and carried across, amid shouting and sing- ing, otherwise he will become blind and lose his chieftainship. THE SONG OF THE CARRIERS HAU ! my Brothers, the dawn is grey, And the legs are stiff and the arms are sore, So hitch the load on your back once more ; There's many a blazing mile in store, For you've got to travel to-day! Pots and pans are the Carriers' dole, And the little white hut that's swung on a pole ; The tongue gets parched, and the throat gets dry, And the thread of a path winds slowly by, Ere the sun climbs over the edge of the sky, Into the crimson bowl ; But the gods have settled the business thus ; It's nothing to do with the likes of us ! So bend your back and follow the track, It's only the fool that makes a fuss, And life is good on the whole. 99 THE SONG OF THE CARRIERS 93 Hau ! my Brothers, the road is long, Come, sling up your bunch of mealie-cobs ! Ah, you mumble, "Your temple throbs, And carrying isn't the best of jobs ! " Was the beer last night too strong ? Hau ! my Brothers, the road is rough, The ox is kraaled when the sun goes down, And the woman rests when the meat is brown, But the Carriers' meed is a kick and a frown, And a pinch and a half of snuff. Hau ! my Brothers, the road is hot, And the White Man sits in his easy chair Atop of his horse, with his nose in the air, And looks around with a lordly stare, While the Carrier Boy does not Hau ! my Brothers, the road is dry, And the sand makes White Men out of the Black, And the sun looks down on the world, alack, And there's many a thorn on the beaten track, But never a cloud in the sky. Hau ! my Brothers, the kraal is near, The branches laugh in the evening breeze, 04 THE SONG OF THE CARRIERS And the ghosts are grinning amid the trees ; Come, shuffle it out, and brace your knees, And think of the gourds of beer ! So dump ye down the Carriers' dole, And clear the ground for the long, red pole, And the pegs and the ropes it is balanced by, And the little white hut astride on high Like a broad-winged bird come down from the sky, And fill ye the porridge bowl. Oh, the gods have ordered our journey thus, They fashion the loads for the likes of us ; So cast your pack, and flat on your back, Be glad that the night has ended the fuss And lodged ye safe at the goal. THE TESTING OF THE 'MLIMO (As related by Nengu, the Singer.) IN the days of long ago, Ere the White Man grasped the land, Ere the crops were taught to grow Or the men to reap and sow, Came a strange-faced warrior band Bringing death and woe. Mambo was their Chieftain's name Feared he neither God nor man Mighty was this Mambo's fame Burning, spoiling, as they came. Through the land his impis ran, Putting us to shame. And they jested at our creed, Saying, "Are ye men, forsooth, Sucklings of 'Mlimo's breed? 'Tis a sorry God, indeed, This of yours ! to speak the truth, But a broken reed ! " 95 96 THE TESTING OF THE 'MLIMO So, upon a certain day, Came each Tribesman from his kraal. Decked in all his war array Openly they met to pray. " Let Mlimo stand or fall By the test," said they. Forth came Mambo to the place, Jesting at the Tribesmen's prayer, Came the men of alien race With a sneer on every face Crying : " Let your God beware 1 Shame is His, and fell disgrace Should He risk the snare ! " Then stood Benyu from the crowd, Potent with the Spirits he Stood erect, and cried aloud While each Tribesman's head was bowed, " 'Mlimo ! Lo, we list to Thee, Strike confusion on the proud, Voice us Thy decree 1 " Now it chanced a heifer grazed Near the kopje, sleek and tame Swift she paused with head upraised, Pawed the ground ; her eyeballs blazed, From her throat the message came " Let the God be praised ! " 97 Leapt the heathens of the North, Swift as arrows from a bow ; Slew the heifer in their wrath, Dragged the steaming entrails forth, Searching high and searching low Cried : " Your God shall make us broth ! " Naught was there to show. Then again the VVitchman stood High upon a bevelled stone, Crying " Once the test is good ! " From a stunted belt of wood Came 'Mlimo's answering tone Clear and clearly understood, " I am God alone ! " Straight they hewed the brushwood down, Rooted up the magic tree, Cleft it through from roof to crown, Probed each crevice with a frown, Strewed the branches angrily, Sifted every earth -clod brown Naught was there to see. Still the Mambos stood and scoffed, Once again old Benyu cried ; Came this answer clear and soft 7 98 THE TESTING OF THE 'MLIMO From a boulder perched aloft On the kopje's rugged side "Men, your faith, despised so oft, Shall be justified 1 " Doubting, baffled once again, Mambo's men, in grim despair, Lit a fire on the plain, Split the solid rock in twain, Laid each nook and cranny bare : Whilst aloof in proud disdain We stood watching there. Once again the God has flown Thus 'Mlimo stood the test : Beast and tree and massive stom. Gave us forth his silver tone At his bidding. For the rest Mambo's men would never own That our God was best. Yet it chanced in years to come Mambo's pride was smitten low, Silenced was the tribal drum, Hushed the women's busy hum By a stronger, keener foe Mambo'3 self was stricken dumb 'Mlimo willed it so ! ZAMA AND ZIRWA YEA ! I have blood red blood upon my hands, I, Zirwa, first-born daughter of the Chief ; Shall I then weep and wring those hands in grief ? Not I ! Let go the matter as it stands, And let 'Mlimo judge he understands ; Zama, my sister's dead and no relief Can call her soul back from the shadow-lands. 'Twas in the hoeing time so much I know That first our father noted aught amiss Old men, thou knowest, are but fools in this, Forgetful that a youngster's heart may glow, E'en as their own did in the long ago, Or that a girl may barter for a kiss More than her honour bids her to bestow. Be that as may be, on a certain night, Chancing to pass the hut where Zama slept, Noting no sound of breathing, lo, I crept Silently in to see that all was right Behold, the pretty bird had winged her flight, Fleeing the watch that our suspicions kept, And vanished, leaving ne'er a trace in sight M 100 ZAMA AND ZIRWA Ah, but my father raved ! But one day more And they had wed her fast to Vumbu. True, Vumbu is old ; but what's a man to do When hunger presses on a meagre store, And gaping mouths still clamour at the door ? Besides, a young girl's passion may renew The fire of one whom age has smitten sore. No matter ! in the dawning back she came With guilt plain-written in her every glance, Greeted me gaily, eyeing me askance, New meaning in her eyes, her cheeks aflame, And flaunting through the kraal her new-found shame, That very evening, through the merest chance, I happened on her precious lover's name. Bokosha ! Ay, Bokosha was the man ; Simple Bokosha of the smiling face, Slender Bokosha of the leopard's grace, The features of a god. My heart's blood ran Swift at the thought, my pulses beat apace Hammering out the horror of the case ; For lo, Bokosha, ere the rains began, Had snared me too, and lured me to disgrace. ZAMA AND ZIRWA 101 Pah ! What a triple-tender fool was I To deem he loved me. Nay ! 'twas Zama's smile That set his heart a-dancing all the while, Her laugh, not mine, that made the hours fly. He waited for the love-light in her eye ; My task was but the waiting to beguile, And help to speed the heavy hours by. That night I hied me to the Witchman's kraal (You know old Benyu ?), sought his sage advice. He bade me trace a shallow furrow twice Around Bokosha's hut at even-fall, Sprinkle therein a pinch of snuff, and call Upon the Spirits of the Lovers twice ; So should my vengeance be complete in all. So later, when the drowsy sun had set Behind the purple hills that fringe the vlei, Swift to Bokosha's hut I took my way, Shrouding my face from every soul I met, Pausing at times to think, and so to whet The edge of my dull anger, lest delay Should whisper things 'twere better to forget. 102 ZAMA AND ZIRWA Twas silent at the hut no laughing din, No light to reach another eye but mine, But, when the heart is mad, each sense is fine And strung to tension through a crack so thin A lizard could not enter, from within There came a glimmer, such a slender line, To lend betrayal to their secret sin ! I traced the furrow, as the Witchman bade, Carefully, slowly, lest their souls should flee My vengeance, and escape their destiny Sprinkled the snuff, then loud and unafraid, I called Bokosha's name, as Benyu said Straight through the moonlight came the twain to me, And lo, I stabbed them with the self-same blade I THE POTS OF FULACHAMA DOWN the vlei the Pots came tripping, Tripping gaily, tripping lightly, Through the moonlight glinting whitely On the stones where waters dripping Rippled on the Fulachama. One was man and one was woman ; Both of blackened clay were moulded, Both with crimson stripes enfolded Zebra-fashion, hardly human As they tripped to Fulachama. And the Woman-Pot was brimming Overneck with beads that glistened ; Had you seen them, had you listened As the waters they were skimming Down the stream of Fulachama, Thus you might have heard them speaking- u Lo, we are the Pots of Magic, Pots of hidden Fate and tragic Every moon thus come we creaking To the stream of Fulachama. 103 104 THE POTS OF FULACHAMA " From our cave upon the mountains Came we thus when Time was breeding, Wearing out a pathway leading Downward to the crystal fountains Of the stream of Fulachama. " Deity was our deviser, Man and woman we are wedded, And the name indeed is dreaded Of the Chieftain's Chief Adviser 1 Through the land of Fulachama." Down the vlei the Pots came tripping, To the water, tripping lightly Through the moonlight glinting whitely On the stones where ripples, slipping, Sped along to Fulachama. Striped with red and black commingled Like the zebra; woe betide him, Any man, when they, beside him, Turn to crimson ! he is singled Out for death at Fulachama ! * " Fuko ya Nebandge " the name by which the natives de^ijjnate the Male Pot. THE POTS OF FULACHAMA 105 Once a man of evil-living, Coveted the beads a-gleaming In the Woman-Pot, went dreaming, Dreamt the dream past all forgiving By the Gods of Fulachama. When the night was dark and lonely, Crept he to the Cave of Slumber, Gazed upon the beads past number, Groped within to clutch them only From the Pots of Fulachama. Straight the Pot closed round the fingers Of the wanton sacrilegious- Though he fought with might prodigious Still to-day the warning lingers In the mind of Fulachama. Strove he fiercely, fear dissembling, But the Pot's grasp only tightened, Till at length, aghast and frightened, He must bear it homeward, trembling, To the kraal of Fulachama. 106 THE POTS OF FULACHAMA But his kinsmen would not greet him, Fearing that a curse was brewing, Left him there, their way pursuing, Till the Evil Ones should eat him On the veld of Fulachama. After many days of waiting, Lo, the evil hand was withered, Dropped from off the stump, and slithered Down among the grasses, sating Thus the wrath of Fulachama. And, they say, the evil-doer Lived a while, to die with cursing Of the dread disease, past nursing, Leaving thus one thief the fewer 'Mid the men of Fulachama. Then the people, terror-stricken, Thrust the corpse with tree-poles only In a cavern dread and lonely Those who pass that way will sicken, Droop and die at Fulachama. THE POTS OF FULACHAMA 107 Still to-day the Pots come tripping, Tripping gaily, tripping lightly Through the moonlight glinting whitely On the stones where waters, slipping, Speed along to Fulachama. THE WITCH-MAN SCENE. A kraal at sundown ; women and children busied in preparing the evening meal. The sun is sinking over low bush to the right of the kraal, and girls and boys pass to and fro, bearing gourds of water from the spruit hard by. The men lie round the half-open doors of their huts, and the hum of voices mingles with the shrill of the crickets. Suddenly the women gather together at the entrance to the kraal, and welcome with whistling and clapping of hands an ancient native who enters. He walks feebly, leaning heavily upon a staff, and is clothed in a faded red and yellow blanket, with massive bangles of copper wire on his wrists and ankles. Round his neck is a string of blue beads, from which hang quaint shaped funnels and cylinders of blackened carved wood. The men at his entrance rise to their feet, the women and children shrink away, and, advancing slowly to the centre of the kraal, thus speaks Gufa, the witch-man : AH, HA ! Behold, behold, I come ! Forbear the dance, nor beat the drum ; Swift to your huts, and mark, be dumb, Or I will work ye harm ! Six moons have waned since I was here Against the dawning of the year. Go ! bring me meat and sour beer, Ere I unloose my charm ! 106 THE WITCH-MAN 109 From North to South from East to West I've wandered on a thankless quest Fain would I sit awhile and rest Ere dawn has scaled the hill And you, Ziweshe, draw you nigh- Nay, tremble not, girl ! am not I So supple and so stout of thigh As he that wrought you ill ? Ah, ha ! that touched you ? even so You thought perchance I did not know Of that dim night, two moons ago Beneath the izinga tree ? Fool ! know you not that I can tell The secrets of the nether hell, And whether fate be ill or well In future destiny? Obey me ! or I cast the bones, The mystic, magic throwing-stones ; Snake, Beetle, Lizard naught atones For them that earn their bane These strips of bark and oil of palms, Sweet honey, and a hundred balms Shall fill your soul with wild alarms And rack your bones with pain. 110 THE WITCH-MAN This necklet, too; were I to glance And cast it to the girls that dance, Forthwith they'd stumble in a trance And die before the night. But see, the stars begin to pale And, ere my weary senses fail, Have none of you some secret tale, Some wrong to set aright? Ah, you Kuraba? hither, see Behind that mlugulu tree ; But first you've brought a goat in fee ? 'Tis well ! Now tell your tale. So ! Mambo stole your wife away, And you would have some drug to slay Secretly, silently ? Away ! 'Tis done ! I shall not fail ! You, Tambudzayi, you quake and shake, What ails you? Spirits bid you wake And cause each nerve and bone to ache, And suck your blood in sleep? So, take this blade of shrivelled grass, This necklet, too, of twisted brass So shall the evil visions pass, But, mark! I claim a sheep I THE WITCH-MAN 111 Ah, well, the night is nearly done, The stars slink homeward one by one And yonder, see the rosy sun Climbs up atop the hill. And so, adieu, good people all, Fear not, abundant rains shall fall And spirits circle round your kraal To guard your flocks from ill. THE SONG OF THE REAPERS BEND to it, my brothers, reap ! Gather up the speckled grain, Pile the daga-bins a-heap, Grain to brew and grain to keep, Guerdon of the summer's rain. Ay, the Gods have blessed the lands Loosed their waters full and free, Dealt their rains with open hands ; Look ye where the ibhe ' stands Fragrant, fair and feathery. Pumpkins, too, a goodly spoil, Dark rapoko, overborne, Sinking laden to the soil, Melon tendrils, too, that coil Twining in amid the corn. * Ibhe sweet reed or sugar-cane, m THE SONG OF THE REAPERS 113 Black Man's corn with purple tops Set like rushes, firm and square, Sentinels, to guard the crops, Decked with heavy leaf that drops Swinging in the burning air. Mungu, ripened into seed, Mealies bursting on the stem ; Lo, the Gods have heard indeed, Shed their bounty on our need, Meed of thanks is due to them. Weak the rivers, once so strong, Winter winds are driving by Hurrying the clouds along ; " Heaven's Birds " * have hushed their song, Thunder-Gods are dumb and dry. Comes the time when veld, a-parch, Crackles with the hoofs of game, When the tribesmen on the march See the whole of Heaven's arch Bursting into sudden flame. Inyoni yuulu lightning. $ 114 THE SONG OF THE REAPERS Bend to it, my brothers, reap! Pile the bins with speckled grain, Fill the dusty beer-pots deep, Drain them and so fall asleep Till the seedtime comes again. A STUDY IN PHILANTHROPY WHAT does he dream of, all the long day through, This dusky, lank-limbed son of servitude ? What are his fancies, as he mumbles low, Trailing his greasy blanket to and fro, Groping and grovelling in the underwood, Nibbling and gnawing as wild creatures do ? How should we know. Has he indeed some dream of life of love Hidden away inside his shaggy pate Bedecked with elfin tangles all a-smear? Is his existence but a subtle sneer, A jest of Them that sit enthroned above Shrouded in fear ? What does he think, I wonder, when a storm Bursts out in majesty upon the world And lightning-serpents wriggle in the sky? Has he no creed except that man must die, No hint of blessing but to lie encurled There in his frowsy hovel, snug and warm, Sheltered and dry? na 110 A STUDY IN PHILANTHROPY Look where he stands a human shape, indeed, But apes are human, almost in his eyes No glimmer of that light we call the soul, Even of instinct but the merest dole. Think you this earth-worm can be taught to rise ? Faugh ! 'Tis some creature that a man might breed For sacrifice 1 MAROMO ON MORALS A HEATHEN I so said the 'Mfundis, Stalking across the mealie-patch to-day (To clutch new converts for his God, I lay), But, what's a life for, but to take one's ease ? Why should a man run hot-foot through the land Prating of Gods I know not, things divine ? I plague him not ; his Spirits are not mine, Why worry me ? 'tis hard to understand. And then, again, six wives I have, 'tis true, And plan to take another, should the rain Be kind, and fill my grain-bins up again ; But, look you, on my lands is work to do. I know, among the Whites, the women all Are feeble things, with hands as soft as whey, Nor do the eager youths fat oxen pay To lead them blushing from their father's kraal. 11T 118 MAROMO ON MORALS Well, what of that ? I do not sally out To preach dissension to the White Man's wife ; (Ffaith, to do so were to court a knife Plunged swiftly in betwixt my ribs, no doubt !) But, none the less, I pay my oxen down And take my womenkind, as men have done Since first 'Mlimo set the flaming sun Up in the sky why should the teacher frown? Ziweshe's old her joints are stiff and sore, The gourd's too heavy for her wagging head, And Tambudzayi is comely yet he said His God would damn me for a wife the more. Pah ! I am old ! too old to learn this creed ; Mine were the earlier days when Mambo died They buried two live kinsmen at his side To chop his wood and hunt his meat at need. Heathen, forsooth ! it may be so ah well, The heathen has the goodlier time, I trow ; No room for us in Heaven ? even so We'll take our beer-pots and our goats to Helll MAMBO'S BURIAL SONG TRIBESMEN I let the tom-toms call, Gather here in Mambo's kraal Mambo, father of us all, dumbly lieth dead Let the girls take up the tale, Clapping, whistling, till the pale Shrieking spirits shrink and quail from his funeral bed. He was mighty in the land, Hard of heart and hard of hand, His the mighty brain that planned many a bloody raid; Swift the laugh and swift the blow, Ever would he have it so ! Twining snakelike round his foe, nimble, unafraid. Still, though old and grey of beard, His the voice the tribesmen feared ; His the name that we revered Mambo, art thou gone ? m 120 MAMBO'S BURIAL SONG Yea, to where the shadows grey Swing like mealie-leaves a-sway Hiding from the light of day, leaving us alone. Nay, it never shall be said Mambo slumbers with the dead, He who is of lions bred takes the lion's form ; Sometime, when the moon is clear We shall see him stalking near, Hear his thunder in our ear, louder than the storm. Woe I and treble woe to him, Luckless one, whose eyes being dim Shall, with fear in every limb, slay the lion then. Mambo's soul shall pass again, Claim anew a fresh domain, But his slayer shall be ta'en from the land of men. Kinsmen ! bring the beer-pots forth ! Women, fetch the mealie-broth ! Dread ye not old Mambo's wrath, he would have it so ; Free of gift was Mambo, aye MAMBO'S BURIAL SONG 121 Giving till the pot was dry : Sure, he'd grin were he but by to watch the liquor flow. See, within the hut he lies On the threshold, sentrywise, Lest the spirits should devise means to snatch his soul. Mambo, list ! we drink to thee ! Pledge thy hospitality, Once again, and finally kinsmen, pass the bowl ! THE CHIEF DOWN in the low dim lands where forest trees Hung shadow curtains out across the sky, And only branches whispering in the breeze Awoke the echoes' sigh ; Down through the gardens, where dark shadows pass Unchallenged and unhindered year by year, Tottering, past the tufts of yellow grass He came a Chief pour rire ! Lord of a land where famine lurked amid The nibbled mealie-cobs that strewed the ground, King of a realm where fell disease, half-hid, Bred hideous shadows round. Monarch, perhaps, of half a hundred huts, One of the relics of a vanished day, Hedged in with all the mockery that shuts The king with feet of clay. M THE CHIEF 123 His garb? A blanket dragging in the sand His kingly robes, a band of bark for crown, Necklet of beads for royal insignia, and A reim to belt his gown. His retinue ? A brother-relic strayed Ten steps behind, bearing a gourd with care. Some remnant of humanity decayed With fat-anointed hair. From shadows passing, shadow-wards they went, Nor gave me greeting as I sat the while Beside the looped-up doorway of my tent, The tedium to beguile. Only, it chanced, some tribesmen slouching by, Stiffened their backs and turned to greet their king, With ceremonious clapping and a cry That made the red rocks ring* I turned and caught the pride that lit his face, The sudden majesty that fired his brain ; Old and forgotten stories of his race Glowed in his eyes again. 124 THE CHIEF Then silence, and the eyes were veiled anew ; Stiffly he hobbled onward as he came, " Faith," said I, musing, as he sank from view, "/$ Kingship but a name?" THE POINT OF VIEW WHITE Man, cease from your tales your God may be good for you, But think you that aught avails to fashion out- creed anew? We, who are born and bred in the fear of 'Mlimo's wrath, Heirs to eternal dread, shall we cast our Witch- men forth To take as a load instead the creed of ye from the North? Lo, we are born in the fear of wild and unspeak- able things ; Born in the Bushland here, where the souls of the dead have wings. Hovering high in the air when the shades of even fall, Shrieking in dim despair at the gate of each lonely kraal Scoff not, White Man ! beware, when the ghosts of the dead men call. 196 126 THE POINT OF VIEW There are Spirits that walk by night with their heads behind their backs There are Spirits that fade from sight in the gloom of the forest tracks ; There are ghosts of the babes that died in the kraal long moons ago, Ghosts of cripples that glide with shambling pace and slow, Ghosts of the new-made bride, and of many a girl we know. Yestereen, when the sun sank low in the western sky, And silently, one by one, the hovering bats flew by, Ziwa, pride of my heart, my youngest and best- loved wife, Drew me a pace apart, saying : " Husband, 'tis done with life, " Nay, friend, shriek not, nor start ! lend me your hunting-knife ! " Ay 1 and she lies there dead and the youths and maidens mourn, They bury her, so one said, in the cool of to- morrow's dawn THE POINT OF VIEW 127 For the evil moor- hens keep a watch on this kraal I know, And perch when the world's asleep, on the hut- tops there below. See ! I will kill a sheep to ward off a further blow! White Man, laugh if you will! such tales are for babes, you say ? Have you no God of 111 ? Do not you cringe and pray? Offering sacrifice in a temple built of stone ? Do you not seek advice from a Priestman of your own? Do you not pay a price ? are we the heathen alone ? THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SCENE. A Mashona kraal. Enter Peter, a "highly- educated" kafir, on a visit to his home. His costume bears witness to the completeness of his civilisation it consists of two odd boots, one black, one brown, a pair of khaki putties, riding breeches that may, in a previous incarnation, have been white, a tail-coat, obviously in mourning for its departed glory, and a tweed cap. His relatives greet him effusively. Peter, striking an attitude, eyes them distastefully. His Brother : BROTHER of mine, where hast thou been Since the time when the crops were green ? PeUr : Brother me not, thou lazy swine ! In sooth I am no brother of thine : Since the crops were green I have lived indeed, And learnt the hang of the White Man's creed. His Father: Child of mine, thou art welcome here Make thee merry on goats and beer 1 us THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 129 Peter : Goats and beer ! 'tis a dainty meal ! Go, feed the pigs they will grunt and squeal And push their greasy snouts in the trough, But / have lived on the White Man's skoff! His Mother : Surely thou wilt for a little stay? What hast thou done since thou wert away ? Peter : First I learnt in a Mission school To read and write and cipher by rule I learnt of the countries over the sea, And the tale of the White Man's history. His Sister: Brother of mine, such things are vain- Come you back to the kraal again ! Peter : Back to tht kraal, forsooth ? To swill Your filthy beer and your lands to till? 1 am the White Man's brother lo, The Mfundisi has told me so. 9 130 THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL An Old Man : Tis ever thus with the Mission bred, Friend, thou hast gotten a swollen head I Peier : Pah ! Ye are dogs, Mashonas all What do I in a nigger's kraal ? Back I go to the White Man's life To take a white-faced girl for a wife. His Father : Son, thou art but a fool for thy pains : Cast thy skin but the taint remains 1 Black is black, though the sky should fall, And the Black Man's place is the Black Man's kraal. THE BELLOWS OF BUNGU THE BLACKSMITH NDANDA ! pick me twenty goats, Fat, and sleek of hide, Slip a reim around their throats, Bind them side by side ; When the red-hot embers glow Gaily shall the bellows blow ! Take the goats without the kraal, Bind them in the sun, Skin them gaily, one and all So the task is done ! Irons shall be hot and bright When the moon is full to-night. Hang the skins upon a tree, Swinging to and fro, Come, now, set the captives free, Look you, there they go ! Raw and bleeding down the vlei Sure, they cannot last the day. wi 132 THE BELLOWS OF BUNGU See that tough old he-goat there, Scampering along, Bleating as he goes. I swear 'Tis a pretty song ! Should he live till eventide His will be a famous hide ! Cruel, you call it ? well, and then ? What is that to me? Goats were made to profit men, And the Gods decree Ere I mould an assegai Many, many goats must die. Ah ! 'tis even as I said See, they writhe and fall ! All except the ram are dead, Drag them to the kraal Goats must live till night, you know, Or the bellows will not blow ! [The above describes what was, till recently, a common native custom. J DEAD MEN'S CLOTHES TATTERED and torn, with withered strings of braid, And lining gaping sadly from within ; Below, a pair of spindle-shanks displayed, Above, a shock of wool that framed a grin ! Thus, in the wilderness where brute men are I found the relic of my dead Hussar. There came to me a fit of wrath, alack It seemed a sacrilege to chill the blood ; I tore the jacket from the sable back, And danced upon its wearer in the mud. 'Twas highway robbery without a par, But I felt sorry for that dead Hussar ! Had it been won in some forgotten fray, Stripped off for spoil, why, one would say no more ; But these are common barter, day by day, Goods of a huckster in a wayside store. A greasy shilling, destined for the bar, Would buy the jacket of a dead Hussar. 134 DEAD MEN'S CLOTHES Nay, educate the heathen if you will And if you can persuade him he's a soul, And plump your money down to foot the bill It cannot do much damage on the whole ; Gather him to your bosom from afar, But spare the memory of a dead Hussar. His skins and hides are heathenish, you think, Then weave him garments from your English looms, Of stout, hygienic stuffs that will not shrink, To clothe his nakedness (and strong perfumes Besprinkle lavishly, and by the jar). But show some reverence for a dead Hussar. If not, methinks, some night when all is still, And not a leaf is stirring in the sky, There'll come a crowd of ghosts from every hill And every kopje where the dead men lie, And several pious heathens will be slain, While dead Hussars take back their own again 1 THE SLAYING OF MTIKANA OUT of the annals of forgotten days When Lobengula held the reins of state, And tall, proud imp is ruled the forest ways, Wandering through the land with spears ablaze, Come chronicles of ancients, that relate The doom of Chief Mtikana The Cloud, And how he spoke with death, and laughed aloud. Lord of the dread Godhlwayo host was he, Skilled in the chase, and foremost in the fray, And generous and well-beloved full free In gifting with a fund of chivalry Beyond his time ; a Bayard, one would say, Though out of heathen stock, and late of birth, Yet ranking with the noble of the earth. It chanced, Mtikana or so 'tis sung Had wedded Makwa, daughter of the King One knows the venom of a woman's tongue ! 186 136 THE SLAYING OF MTIKANA The dainty snake his warming breast had stung, Tainting his honour with her slandering, And, leagued with jealous Chiefs, who sought hit fall, Bore ill report to Lobengula's kraal. Whereon, the King took counsel, and decreed That messengers should seek the Chieftain out And hale him to his presence, that indeed Test might be made, and punishment at need Be meted to him ; also, captains stout Were sent to summon in a wizard wise, To cast the bones, and lend a shrewd surmise. So came Manenga to the council place (Forebribed by Makwa with a lordly steer) Cunning and crafty, of the wizard race, Lord of the "Smellers-out" his ferret face Gleamed wolfishly among his feather gear, And amulets, and charms, and carven wings Lent weightiness unto his whisperings. "O King," he mumbled, "Lord of earth and sky! The bones have spoken, and the fates are plain, Mtikana, empowered from on high, THE SLAYING OF MTIKANA 137 Shall smite and lo, the Elephant shall die Potions, and charms, and spells alike are vain ; His guardians are the moon and stars and sun, King shill he be ere many days are run. " In proof whereof, O King, the facts are clear The regiments are his servants to a man, And loud ' Hayete ! ' strikes upon the ear Whene'er the Chief Mtikana draws near Thus rings the royal salute your kingly ban Avails but little to divorce your trust, Or trample down the traitor in the dust." Then rose Mtikana, and all were still. " My King," he said, " I pray you, slay me now ! It is not meet that one, whose only will Has been the King's, whose deeds are clear of ill, Should languish in your prison huts, and bow Long days before your gaoler's look of scorn ! Come, slay me, ere my honour be forsworn ! " But Lobengula spoke him soft and fair, Disclaiming aught of envy " Hie you hence, Gallant Mtikana ! we cannot spare So brave a warrior my gifts shall bear Meet tribute to your noble innocence." 138 THE SLAYING OF MTIKANA The Chieftain bowed, and answered murmuring