A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/F. F.
LAMENT OF THE TREK OX.
Inspanned, early and late,
With the galling yoke on my neck—
To toil and strain 'neath the stinging lash
Till I drop—is my wretched fate!
O man! with the horny hand,
O man! with the stony heart,
Ere the sun goes down, if but for an hour,
For dear God's sake, "outspan."
For days and nights I've pulled
With my mates your fleecy load,
Through parched Karoo and sapless bush,
Till we heard the cry of the wild seamew
And the breakers thundering loud.
The breeze from the water cool
Gave life to our throbbing heart,
And we trekked again with right good will,
To drink of the promised draught.
In vain, once more in vain,
For tied to the hateful yoke,
Through the chilly night on the iron road
Till the day began to break.
On the cold and barren strand
We lay the weary night,
Till the God-sent sun arose once more
On our limbs,—like iron bands.
With feet worn through, and wasted frame,
We stagger along the road;
Arrived in the sharp and stony street,
We stand, while the men off load.
'Mid the rush of eager men,
As they hurry along the street,
We stand, and wonder what it means,
And bemoan our cruel fate.
All day without water or food
We pant in the blazing heat,
And visions dim of the shady wood
And river's cool retreat
Pass through our weary hearts,
Till the evening sun goes down,—
When the startling shot of the terrible thong
Hurries us out of the town.
"Weary, and wounded, and worn,"
We stagger in front of the load,
And we stupidly wonder if men have hearts,
Or is there indeed a God?
A God, all wise and good,
Who lists to His creature's cry?
'Tis hard to be understood;
To be born, and suffer, and die.