THE SONG OF THE ELEPHANTS
Who is as heavy as we, or as strong?
Ho! but we trample the shambas down!
Saw ye a swath where the trash lay long
And tall trees flat like a harvest mown?
That was the path we shore in haste
(Judge, is it easy to find, and wide!)
Ripping the branch and bough to waste
Like rocks shot loose from a mountain side!
Therefore hear us:
(All together, stamping steadily In time.)
'Twas we who lonely echoes woke
To copy the crash of the trees we broke!
Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
Shall humble the will of the Ivory Folk!
Once we were monarchs from sky to sky,
Many were we and the men were few;
Then we would go to the Place to die—
Elephant tombs* that the oldest knew,—
Old as the trees when the prime is past,
Lords unchallenged of vale and plain,
Grazing aloof and alone at last
To lie where the oldest had always lain.
So we sing of it:
——————————————- * The legendary place that every Ivory hunter hopes some day to stumble on, where elephants are said to have gone away to die of old age, and where there should therefore be almost unimaginable wealth of ivory. The legend, itself as old as African speech, is probably due to the rarity of remains of elephants that have died a natural death. ———————————————
(All together, swinging from side to side in time, and tossing trunks.)
'Twas we who lonely echoes woke
To copy the crash of the trees we broke!
Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
Shall govern the strength of the Ivory Folk!
Still we are monarchs! Our strength and weight
Can flatten the huts of the frightened men!
But the glory of smashing is lost of late,
We raid less eagerly now than then,
For pits are staked, and the traps are blind,
The guns be many, the men be more;
We fidget with pickets before and behind,
Who snoozed in the noonday heat of yore.
Yet, hear us sing:
(All together, ears up and trunks extended.)