Classic Poem

In Afric's fabled fountains I have panned the golden sand —
Caught crocodile with baviaan for bait —
I've fished, with blasting gelatine for hook an' gaff an' wand,
An' lured the bearded barbel to his fate:
But take your Southern rivers that meander to the sea,
And set me where the Leochel joins the Don,
With eighteen feet of greenheart an' the tackle running free —
I want to have a clean fish on.

The eland an' the tsessebe I 've tracked from early dawn,
I 've heard the roar of lions shake the night,
I 've fed the lonely bush-veld camp on dik-kop an' korhaan,
An' watched the soaring vulture in his flight;
For horn an' head I 've hunted, yet the spoil of gun and spear,
My trophies, I would freely give them all,
To creep through mist an' heather on the great red deer —
I want to hear the black cock call.

In hot December weather when the grass is caddie high
I 've driven clean an' lost the ball an' game,
When winter veld is burned an' bare I 've cursed the cuppy lie —
The language is the one thing still the same;
For dongas, rocks, an' scuffled greens give me the links up North,
The whins, the broom, the thunder of the surf,
The three old fellows waiting where I used to make a fourth —
I want to play a round on turf.

I 've faced the fremt, its strain an' toil, in market an' in mine,
Seen Fortune ebb an' flow between the " Chains,"
Sat late o'er starlit banquets where the danger spiced the wine,
But bitter are the lees the alien drains;
For all the time the heather blooms on distant Benachie,
An' wrapt in peace the sheltered valley lies,
I want to wade through bracken in a glen across the sea —
I want to see the peat reek rise.