Shrinking in dim despair at the gate of each lonely kraal—
Scoff not, white man! beware, when the ghosts of the dead men call.
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There are Spirits that walk by night with their heads behind their backs—
There are Spirits that fade from sight in the gloom of the forest tracks;
There are ghosts of the babes that died in the kraal long moons ago,
Ghosts of cripples that glide with shambling pace and slow,
Ghosts of the new-made bride and of many a girl we know.
Yestereen, when the sun sank low in the western sky,
And silently, one by one, the hovering bats flew by,