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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 restored

To the arms that nearly lost,
She, because of all she cost,
Stands, a very woman, most
Perfect and adored!

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!



ERE, 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.'

Bless then, our God, the new-yoked plough

And the good beasts that draw,

And the bread we eat in the sweat of our brow

According to Thy Law.

After us cometh a multitude

Prosper the work of our hands,

That we may feed with our land's food

The folk of all our lands!

Here, in the waves and the troughs of the plains,
Where the healing stillness lies,
And the vast, benignant sky restrains

And the long days make wise-
Bless to our use the rain and the sun

And the blind seed in its bed,

That we may repair the wrong that was done To the living and the dead!

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