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W. C. SCULLY.
97
THE CATTLE THIEF.
I rise from my bed
When the moon is dead,
And hidden is every star;
When the white man sleeps,
And the tired hound
No vigil keeps,
But, in slumber sound,
Follows the chase afar.
I swiftly glide
Down the dark hillside,
And creep to the farmer's kraal,
Where the sleek-limbed kine,
With breath so sweet,
That will soon be mine,
In my bush retreat,
Wake at my soft, low call.
We quickly pass
O'er the dew-wet grass,
For my whistle they tamely follow;
Over hill and dale
We hurry apace,
For the morning pale
Will bring the chase
On our track down the bushy hollow.
