GLEN LYNDEN. 187 



For crook the guardian gun he bears, 

 For plaid the sheep-skin mantle wears ; 

 Sauntering languidly along ; 

 Nor flute has he, nor merry song, 

 Nor hook, nor tale, nor rustic lay, 

 To cheer him through his listless day. 

 His look is dull, his soul is dark ; 

 He feels not hope's electric spark ; 

 But born the White Man's servile thrall, 

 Knows that he cannot lower fall." 



Crossing the ford near a small farm-house, we in- 

 quired our way to the residence of the Veld Cornet, 

 and were informed that it was some distance up the 

 valley. The farmer very kindly pressed us to remain 

 during the night, but feeling anxious to reach our 

 purposed destination, we proceeded and crossed the 

 river again at the base of a high, perpendicular 

 mountain, in the projecting crags of which an im- 

 mense number of vultures appeared to have taken up 

 their nocturnal abode. Darkness now began to 

 close rapidly in upon us : the path in many places 

 was broken into gulleys by the heavy torrents 

 which had flowed from the mountain, and after 

 several narrow escapes of another upsetting, we 

 reached the farm of Van der Nes about nine 

 o'clock, where we met with a very hospitable 

 reception. 



Mr. Van der Nes proposed accompanying us the 

 next morning to a most romantic part of the country 

 at a short distance from his residence, the beauty of 

 T*jjiicli we had often heard described. At an early 



