_True, ah true, and overtrue; That is why we love her! For she is South Africa, And she is South Africa, She is our South Africa, Africa all over!_ Bitter hard her lovers toiled, Scandalous their payment,-- Food forgot on trains derailed; Cattle-dung where fuel failed; Water where the mules had staled; And sackcloth for their raiment! So she filled their mouths with dust And their bones with fever; Greeted them with cruel lies; Treated them despiteful-wise; Meted them calamities Till they vowed to leave her. They took ship and they took sail, Raging, from her borders,-- In a little, none the less, They forgat their sore duresse, They forgave her waywardness And returned for orders! They esteemed her favour more Than a Throne’s foundation. For the glory of her face Bade farewell to breed and race-- Yea, and made their burial-place Altar of a Nation! Wherefore, being bought by blood, And by blood restorèd To the arms that nearly lost, She, because of all she cost, Stands, a very woman, most Perfect and adorèd! _On your feet, and let them know This is why we love her! For she is South Africa, She is our South Africa, Is our own South Africa, Africa all over!_ THE SETTLER [Page 53] Here, where my fresh-turned furrows run, And the deep soil glistens red, I will repair the wrong that was done To the living and the dead. Here, where the senseless bullet fell, And the barren shrapnel burst, I will plant a tree, I will dig a well, Against the heat and the thirst. Here, in a large and a sunlit land, Where no wrong bites to the bone, I will lay my hand in my neighbour’s hand, And together we will atone For the set folly and the red breach And the black waste of it all, Giving and taking counsel each Over the cattle-kraal. Here will we join against our foes-- The hailstroke and the storm, And the red and rustling cloud that blows The locust’s mile-deep swarm; Frost and murrain and floods let loose Shall launch us side by side In the holy wars that have no truce ’Twixt seed and harvest tide. Earth, where we rode to slay or be slain, Our love shall redeem unto life; We will gather and lead to her lips again The waters of ancient strife, From the far and the fiercely guarded streams And the pools where we lay in wait, Till the corn cover our evil dreams And the young corn our hate. And when we bring old fights to mind, We will not remember the sin-- If there be blood on his head of my kind, Or blood on my head of his kin-- For the ungrazed upland, the untilled lea Cry, and the fields forlorn: ‘The dead must bury their dead, but ye-- Ye serve an host unborn.’