The Lion Hunt
Mount -- mount for the hunting -- with musket and spear!
Call our friends to the field -- for the Lion is near!
Call Arend and Ekhard and Groepe to the spoor;
Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas Van Vuur.
Ride up Eildon-Cleugh, and blow loudly the bugle:
Call Slinger and Allie and Dikkop and Dugal;
And George with the elephant-gun on his shoulder --
In a perilous pinch none is better or bolder.
In the gorge of the glen lie the bones of my steed,
And the hoofs of a heifer of fatherland's breed:
But mount, my brave boys! if our rifles prove true,
We'll soon make the spoiler his ravages rue.
Ho! the Hottentot lads have discovered the track --
To his den in the desert we'll follow him back;
But tighten your girths, and look well to your flints,
For heavy and fresh are the villain's foot-prints.
Through the rough rocky kloof into grey Huntly-Glen,
Past the wild-olive clump where the wolf has his den,
By the black-eagle's rock at the foot of the fell,
We have tracked him at length to the buffalo's well.
Now mark yonder brake where the blood-hounds are howling;
And hark that hoarse sound -- like the deep thunder growling;
'Tis his lair -- 'tis his voice! -- from your saddles alight;
He's at bay in the brushwood preparing for fight.
Leave the horses behind -- and be still every man:
Let the Mullers and Rennies advance in the van:
Keep fast in your ranks; -- by the yell of yon hound,
The savage, I guess, will be out -- with a bound.
He comes! the tall jungle before him loud crashing,
His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes flashing;
With a roar of disdain, he leaps forth in his wrath,
To challenge the foe that dare 'leaguer his path.
He couches -- ay now we'll see mischief, I dread:
Quick -- level your rifles -- and aim at his head:
Thrust forward the spears, and unsheath every knife --
St. George! he's upon us! -- Now, fire, lads, for life!
He's wounded -- but yet he'll draw blood ere he falls --
Ha! under his paw see Bezuidenhout sprawls --
Now Diederik! Christian! right in the brain
Plant each man his bullet -- Hurra! he is slain!
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poem by Thomas Pringle
Added by Poetry Lover
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