Dead already in their isolation,
Untouchable for their contagion,
The lepers gather in smasher and waistcoat
On parade, holding their mellow note:

Onward Christian soldiers marching as to war,
From ward to church, and repeat as before;
The drums they beat till their hands drop,
Tongues twist about when they have to stop.

Once their feet go, they may hobble,
Bones for crutches, ears in trouble:
O Sarie Marais is so ver van my hart,
At the poor cemetery they had to part.

Then their sons on harmonicas insist on more
And the bugler’s boy’s learning to read score;
From the church to their prison they swarm and go,
Blowing their guts out, fortissimo.

Most were kept from seeing a leper discompose,
Lesions, through the bridge of the nose;
In their colonies with a shot now cured,
Each Lazarus is raised, a miracle ensured.

Yet their wild stomp persists in the memory . . .
How the Governor flinched in his gloves and glory,
Taking the tribute he could barely endure:
From such deprivation, a melody so pure.