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(5 January 1789 – 5 December 1834 / Blaiklaw)

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The Bushman

The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den,
In the lone wilderness. Around him lie
His wife and little ones unfearingly --
For they are far away from 'Christian Men.'
No herds, loud lowing, call him down the glen:
He fears no foe but famine; and may try
To wear away the hot noon slumberingly;
Then rise to search for roots -- and dance again.
But he shall dance no more! His secret lair,
Surrounded, echoes to the thundering gun,
And the wild shriek of anguish and despair!
He dies -- yet, ere life's ebbing sands are run,
Leaves to his sons a curse, should they be friends
With the proud 'Christian-Men' -- for they are fiends!

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003


Read poems about / on: dance, despair, life, son, rose, running, sleep, fear, friend

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Comments about this poem (To Sir Walter Scott by Thomas Pringle )

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  • Erhard Hans Josef Lang (8/15/2006 11:53:00 PM)

    If I were a bushman, I'd feel the same.

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