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This I Choose... Oh give me not the strident, Demon wail Of penny whistle and tea chest guitar; Nor give me tales of those who rode the trail Deep in the west of far America! Oh not for me the songs and nonsense tales That thrill the modern rabble rout Who, leaving far behind their tribal vales With traitor zest, ape 'culture' from without! Rather than the modern crooner's foreign voice, Or the loud howls of modern township jive, I shall leave far behind that mad'ning noise And hurry home where Tribal Elders live. There 'neath baobabs or flat-topped munga trees, Where nestling birds with many tongues argue, And flaming aloes bless the smiling breeze With heady scent; and where the distant view Of scowling mountains 'gainst the silver sky With dread and reverence fill the misted eye! Where, on the gentle slopes of ancient hills there browse The bearded goats, the sheep, the shambling cows; And loud above his lowing wives the bull With awful bellow, dares the distant foe! There I shall sit before Ubabamkulu Who shall relate to me the tales of Yore There I shall kneel before the old Gegulu And hear legends of those that lived Before