Grace me these veld spoils rude with name of thine! Mine's been the luck not thine these long years now To tread the veld. What other use had'st thou, Hunter and Horseman, made of chances mine! Nor horns nor heads have I to give to thee, Yet spoils of sorts veld spoils I bring with me. Some fifteen years now I have been her guest, For all this land's hers, tho' she does not reign. She's but a ward, at what late age she'll gain Her freedom and her kingdom, it were best To risk no surmise rash. E'en now she's drest Sometimes in skins. Give her ground-nuts and grain, Cattle and thatch'd hut, then she'll not complain, She's happier-hearted than her Sisters blest.…
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