Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands,
Tending another's flock upon the fields,
His father's once, where now the White Man builds
His home, and issues forth his proud commands.
His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands
Lean on the shepherd's staff; no more he wields
The Libyan bow -- but to th' oppressor yields
Submissively his freedom and his lands.
Has he no courage? Once he had -- but, lo!
Harsh Servitude hath worn him to the bone.
No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow,
Have humbled him to dust -- even hope is gone!
"He's a base-hearted hound -- not worth his food" --
His Master cries -- "he has no gratitude!"
Thomas Pringle's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Hottentot by Thomas Pringle )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Brewster's, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- गोरबो इसिँनिफ्राइ -48, Ronjoy Brahma
- Reign of Despair, Luca Menin
- Thoughts Of Prose, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Her pride and honor, hasmukh amathalal
- गोरबो इसिँनिफ्राइ -47, Ronjoy Brahma
- Blood Of Innocence, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Carbon and Life, douglas scotney
- Good-night love, good morning too, Mandolyn ...
- गोरबो इसिँनिफ्राइ -46, Ronjoy Brahma