| |
| MOUNT! mount! for the hunting with musket and spear: | |
| Call our friends to the field, for the lion is near: | |
| Call Arend and Ekhard and Groepe to the spoor; | |
| Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas Van Vuur. | |
| |
| Ride up Skirly-Cleugh, and blow loudly the bugle: | 5 |
| Call Slinger and Allie and Dikkop and Dugal; | |
| And Gert, with the elephant-gun on his shoulder; | |
| In a perilous pinch none is better or bolder. | |
| |
| In the gorge of the glen lie the bones of my steed, | |
| And the hoofs of a heifer of fatherland’s breed; | 10 |
| But mount, my brave friends! if our rifles prove true, | |
| We ’ll soon make the spoiler his ravages rue. | |
| |
| Ho! the Hottentot boys have discovered his track,— | |
| To his den in the desert we ’ll follow him back; | |
| But tighten your girths, and look well to your flints, | 15 |
| For heavy and fresh are the villain’s foot-prints. | |
| |
| Through the rough rocky kloof, through the gray shaggy glen, | |
| By the wild-olive brake where the wolf has his den, | |
| By mountain and forest, by fountain and vlei, | |
| We have tracked him at length to the coverts of Kei. | 20 |
| |
| Mark that black bushy mound where the bloodhounds are howling; | |
| Hark! that hoarse sullen sound like the deep thunder growling; | |
| ’T is his lair,—’t is his voice!—from your saddles alight, | |
| For the bold skelm-beast is preparing for fight. | |
| |
| Leave the horses behind, and be still every man; | 25 |
| Let the Mullers and Rennie advance in the van; | |
| Keep fast in a clump;—by the yell of yon hound, | |
| The savage, I guess, will be out with a bound. | |
| |
| He comes!—the tall jungle before him loud crashing, | |
| His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes flashing; | 30 |
| With a roar of disdain he leaps forth in his wrath, | |
| To challenge the foe that dare ’leaguer his path. | |
| |
| He crouches—ay! now we ’ll have mischief, I dread; | |
| Quick! level your rifles, and aim at his head; | |
| Thrust forward the spears, and unsheath every knife,— | 35 |
| St. George! he ’s upon us!—Now fire, lads, for life! | |
| |
| He ’s wounded!—but yet he ’ll draw blood ere he falls: | |
| Ha! under his paw see Bezuidenhout sprawls,— | |
| Now Diederik! Christian! right in the brain | |
| Plant each man his bullet:—hurra! he is slain! | 40 |
| |
| Bezuidenhout,—up, man! ’t is only a scratch | |
| (You were always a scamp, and have met with your match,)— | |
| What a glorious lion!—what sinews, what claws! | |
| And seven feet ten from the rump to the jaws. | |
| |
| Come, off with his hide. Why, his head ’s like a bull’s | 45 |
| (To the wise folks we ’ll send it who lecture on skulls): | |
| He has shown a good pluck, too,—and, after we dine, | |
| We ’ll drink to his dirge, boys, a flask of good wine. | |
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