South Africa

by Rudyard Kipling

　　

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Lived a woman wonderful, (May the Lord amend her!) Neither simple, kind, nor true, But her Pagan beauty drew Christian gentlemen a few Hotly to attend her. Christian gentlemen a few From Berwick unto Dover; For she was South Africa, Ana she was South Africa, She was Our South Africa, Africa all over! Half her land was dead with drouth, Half was red with battle; She was fenced with fire and sword Plague on pestilence outpoured, Locusts on the greening sward And murrain on the cattle! 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 toild, Scandalous their paymen,, 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!

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