Past the Fort on the fairway, where river and sea are met,
Like new stars risen on the hillside, the Bushmen's fires are set,
When the flames die down and to ashes wither the embers red,
And the tents are struck to silver as the moon climbs overhead,
In his dream the river whispers, night-long, of his ranges far,
And his creeks in the open forests, where the kindly cattle are.
In his dream the ocean murmurs, night-long, how he bears away
The men from the camp on the hillside – some for ever and aye.
Up to the camp on the hillside, whisper and murmur creep;
In all the tents of the hillside, the Bushmen hear in their sleep.
In dream, at the word of the river, they ride where the bush blows sweet,
They stoop 'neath the moth-wing roof of bark, where the old bush-comrades meet,
In dream, at the word of the ocean, they follow the Dutchmen's spoor,
Till the Flag of the Nation flies in peace, over Briton and Boer.
Mary Hannay Foott (1902)