Thomas Pringle was a Scottish writer, poet and abolitionist, known as the father of South African Poetry, being the first successful English language poet and author to describe South Africa's scenery, native peoples, and living conditions.
Born at Blaiklaw (now named Blakelaw), four miles south of Kelso in Roxburghshire, Thomas Pringle studied at Edinburgh University where he developed a talent for writing. Being lame, he did not follow his father into farming, but worked as a clerk and continued writing, soon succeeding to editorships of journals and newspapers. One of his poems celebrating his Scottish heritage came to the attention of the novelist Sir Walter Scott, by whose ... more »
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Thomas Pringle Poems
Afar in the Desert
Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
Song of the Wild Bushman
Let the proud White Man boast his flocks, And fields of foodful grain; My home is 'mid the mountain rocks, The Desert my domain.
Wake! Amakósa, wake! And arm yourselves for war. As coming winds the forest shake, I hear a sound from far:
The Bechuana Boy
I sat at noontide in my tent, And looked across the Desert dun, Beneath the cloudless firmament Far gleaming in the sun,
The free-born Kosa still doth hold The fields his fathers held of old; With club and spear, in jocund ranks, Still hunts the elk by Chumi's banks:
Lo! where he crouches by the cleugh's dark side, Eyeing the farmer's lowing herds afar; Impatient watching till the Evening Star Lead forth the Twilight dim, that he may glide
The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den, In the lone wilderness. Around him lie His wife and little ones unfearingly -- For they are far away from 'Christian Men.'
The Caffer Commando
Hark! -- heard ye the signals of triumph afar? 'Tis our Caffer Commando returning from war: The voice of their laughter comes loud on the wind, Nor heed they the curses that follow behind.
To Sir Walter Scott
From deserts wild and many a pathless wood Of savage climes where I have wandered long, Whose hills and streams are yet ungraced by song, I bring, illustrious friend, this garland rude:
The Lion Hunt
Mount -- mount for the hunting -- with musket and spear! Call our friends to the field -- for the Lion is near! Call Arend and Ekhard and Groepe to the spoor; Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas Van Vuur.
Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands, Tending another's flock upon the fields, His father's once, where now the White Man builds His home, and issues forth his proud commands.
The Slave Dealer
From ocean's wave a Wanderer came, With visage tanned and dun: His Mother, when he told his name, Scarce knew her long-lost son;
Fast by his wild resounding River The listless Coran lingers ever; Still drives his heifers forth to feed, Soothed by the gorrah's humming reed;
The Emigrant's Farewell
Our native land - our native vale - A long and last adieu! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue.
Comments about Thomas Pringle
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Afar in the Desert
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:
Bright visions of glory -- that vanish too soon;
Day-dreams -- that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments -- by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days -- lost or left;
And my ...