Through his clasp'd hands the tears fall fast,
And wet the earth, where stood
His humble home, in ashes laid,
Red with his kindred's blood.
And curses, struggling with his grief,
Die on his quiv'ring lips;
And tight he grasps the assegai,
Which still with life-blood drips.
Then, starting to his feet, he cast
An impious look on high:
"God of the whites," he cries, "who dwell'st
Beyond yon azure sky,
"Thy children are a cruel race
Of murderers and thieves.
Give back to me my warriors brave,
Fall'n thick as autumn leaves
"Before the hot blast of their guns,
Which, with its hailstorm, rode
O'er all our ranks, and made us fall
Like corn when it is mow'd.
"They say Thou art a God of peace—
Thy rebel children lie;
They say Thou art a righteous judge:
For vengeance dread I cry!
"Avenge the wrongs we've suffered
For those who call on Thee;
If Thou art just, then root out those
Who live by treachery!"
