Classic Poem

Dusty with travel they return,
And silent with long journeying.
In spring,
When the first thunderstorms are in the air,
And the hot roadways burn,
Up the Main Street they come,
Bandawi, Tshangaan, Senna;
The labourers, going home.

Back from the Rand are they,
Much alter'd in their dress;
The dignity of labour leaves its mark,
And contact with the world has knock'd away
A deal of tribal corners; — strangely less
The signs by which we knew them. But the spark
Of old-time recognition, glowing weak,
Flares up full brightly when they speak.

I

The M ABANDAWI

Master, we have return'd.
Hard was the work, the food was very bad;
Our masters were unkind, and would noThear
Our hymns and psalms.
From Bulawayo came we by the paths,
Hoping to save some money by the same;
But food was very dear. Christo has brought
His children pretty safely here — but yet
Aaron and Matthew died upon the way.
Here is their wealth; master, make note of it,
That we may show their brethren in Blantyre
Lest that they say we murder'd them to steal.
Now stamp our passes, master, let us go.
Johannisber will never see us more,
And we will turn our weary footsteps North.

II

The M ATSHANGAANA

Inkoos!
Inkoos, we have come back.
By train we came, and very swift the route.
I-jonnisiberg is very full of wealth;
Wilhelm and Winkel drew five pounds apiece,
And every month they drew it. In those mines
They drill deep holes; dumblain, where it is hot.
Good were the captains, and the food was good;
Next year we come again, if thou wilt send.
Now let us seek Matshanga, and the South.
Inkoos!

III

The M ASENNA

Sawona, Senhor!
We have come again;
From Jonnisberi and the mines we come.
Wa! we have work'd, and made much money, we.
Above the mines we work'd — not down below!
Shitofo is our labour, not those holes
They blast with dynamite!
Some have not come?
We left them sleeping in the sand and mud;
The doctors gave them milk when they were ill —
Antonio, Rapoza, and the rest —
That kill'd them. Had they come with us again
They might have died of drink, ha! ha!
Or died chifebi-mad. Their time was come —
Mayhap, Machalimann have eaten them!
But what care we — ha! ha!
Kwa mudzi kwango would we go, Senhor,
Home to the East — but hold, there is a man
Who works down-street that owes me two and six,
At playing cards he lost it; —
May we have
A pass for seven days?
Not so?
Senhor, adio. With winter we return.