And the savage quaked when first he heard up steep Quathlamba’s side,
The crack of our dreaded wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide,
The crack of our dreaded wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide.
The Australian boasts his stock-whip stout, with which in mad career
He urges o’er the boundless plain the wild unbroken steer,
Or drives his herds to pastures new in swift and headlong flight,
Down many a stony torrent bed, o’er many a rocky height.
But though loud and sharp its cracks resound adown the mountain’s side,
Yet it cannot match our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide,
Yet it cannot match our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide.