Ah sad are our hearts,
Our souls full of trouble,
Ruin’s harvest has come—
We are left as the stubble.
The white man is here
For our fields and our cattle;
No hope is now left us—
No chance in the battle.
We look on like men
Who are used to disaster,
And see ruin’s night
Falling faster and faster.
Or like animals struck
By the swift assegai,
We are sentenced to death,
We have only to die.
From Limpopo to Vaal
Has the mandate been given,
“From his veld and his home
Must the black man be driven.”
From the homes of our youth,
Which our eyes love to scan,
We are forced from the kraals
Of our chief—Mankoraan.
We starve in the veld
So blooming and verdant;
The invader is lord,
The owner—his servant.
Christianity—lo!
To your justice we fly;
Protect us at once,
Or we perish and die.
Alex. Wilmot.
