Timbuctoo

Richard Hengist Horne

Must I still live in Timbuctoo,   
  Midst burning and shifting sands,   
In a small straw hut, near a foul morass,—   
  When the earth has sweet green lands?   
 
No breath of air, no song of a bird,           
  And scarcely the voice of man,   
Save the water-carrier’s wailful cry,   
  As he plods to fill calabash-can.   
 
No fruit, no tree, no herbage, nor soil   
  Where a plant or root might grow,           
Save the desert-shrub full of wounding thorns,   
  As the lips of the camels know.   
 
The main street steams with the caravans,   
  Tired oxen and camels kneel down;   
Box, package, and bales, are sold or exchanged,—           
  And the train leaves our silent town.   
 
The white man comes, and the white man goes,   
  But his looks and his words remain;   
They show me my heart can put forth green leaves,   
  And my withering thoughts find rain.           
 
O, why was I born in Timbuctoo?—   
  For now that I hear the roar   
Of distant lands, with large acts in men’s hands,   
  I can rest in my hut no more.   
 
New life! new hope! and change!           
  Your echoes are in my brain;   
Farewell to my thirsty home,   
  I must traverse the land and main!   
 
And can I, then, leave thee, poor Timbuctoo,   
  Where I first beheld the sky?           
Where my own loved maid now sleeps in the shade,   
  Where the bones of my parents lie!

The town of Timbuktu is really a pretty godforsaken place. It lies close to the River Niger in Mali, on the edge of the Sahara Desert.

There are other poems about Timbuktu that reflect its old mystical, magnificent reputation.


Main Location:

Timbuktu, Tomboctou, Timbuctooo, Mali

Sankore Mosque, Timbuktu, Mail