Song of the Elephants

Who is as heavy as we, or as strong?

Ho! but we trample the shambas down!
Saw ye a swath where the trash lay long
And tall trees flat like a harvest mown?
That was the path we shore in haste
Ripping the branch and bough to waste
Like rocks shot loose from a mountain side!
Therefore hear us:

(All together, stamping steadily In time.)

'Twas we who lonely echoes woke
To copy the crash of the trees we broke!
Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
Shall humble the will of the Ivory Folk!

Once we were monarchs from sky to sky,
Many were we and the men were few;
Then we would go to the Place to die—
Elephant tombs that the oldest knew,—
Old as the trees when the prime is past,
Lords unchallenged of vale and plain,
Grazing aloof and alone at last
To lie where the oldest had always lain.
So we sing of it:

'Twas we who lonely echoes woke
To copy the crash of the trees we broke!
Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
Shall govern the strength of the Ivory Folk!

Still we are monarchs! Our strength and weight
Can flatten the huts of the frightened men!
But the glory of smashing is lost of late,
We raid less eagerly now than then,
For pits are staked, and the traps are blind,
The guns be many, the men be more;
We fidget with pickets before and behind,
Who snoozed in the noonday heat of yore.
Yet, hear us sing:

(All together, ears up and trunks extended.)

'Twas we who lonely echoes woke
To copy the crash of the trees we broke!
Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
Have lessened the rage of the Ivory Folk!

Still we are monarchs of field and stream!
None is as strong or as heavy as we!
We scent—we swerve—we come—we scream—
And the men are as mud 'neath tusk and knee!
But we go no more to the Mountain to die,
For the blacks head us off and the guns pursue;
Bleaching our scattered rib-bones do lie,
And the men be many, and we be few.
Nevertheless:

(All together, trunks up-thrown, ears extended, and stamping in slow time with the fore-feet.)

'Twas we who lonely echoes woke
To copy the crash of the trees we broke!
Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
Shall humble the pride of the Ivory Folk!

- Talbot Mundy

» SAYINGS OF THE WISE

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