ON A SOUTH AFRICAN FARM. On, the veldt-land, and the
farm-land ! And the country, wild and free— Where the air blows straight from heaven, Oh, 'tis there that I would be.
In the far blue distance, The blue hills of 'Nhlozane. An amber streak in the valley, The winding Umpofaan. Smoke breaths on the hill-side, Marking the panting train, Rest on the red-brown grass, Dying, for lack of rain.
The blue-gums, whisper, rustling, As thro' them the North wind flies, Whistling down the valley, Bidding the white mist rise— The scent of the wattle blossoms, From the plantation, on the hill, The song of the cicala, Ceaseless, loud, and shrill.
The tinkle of the streamlet,
Hidden in fern and weed,—
The warmth and glamour of sunlight, The fragrance of grass-seed.
The lowing of the cattle, As they wander to the kraal, The swish of the milk in the bucket, The sunshine on the wall.
The barking of the watch-dog, The scratching fowls on the land.
The shouts of happy children,
And their ponies who will not stand.
The scent of the Boer tobacco, As the farmer lights his pipe.
The waggon toiling, creaking, Laden with mealies, gathered ripe.
Oh, the veldt-land, and the farm-land!
And the country, wild and free—
'Where the air blows straight from heaven, Oh, 'tis there that I would be. Loam/.
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