[Repeats the chant.]
Ralph (puzzled)
I’m sure there’s nothing in the world can beat it;
But—er—the language is a little queer;
I did not quite catch all the words, I fear;
Besides, I’m so distracted by your face.
That chant relates the conquests of my race;
Though I am poor, and hawk about these lais
To earn my bread, yet in the olden days
There was no prouder family on earth
Than mine. But Polynesian pride of birth
Is quite beyond the white man’s scope of brain,
And so perchance I speak to you in vain.
[Takes her flowers and starts to go.]
Ralph (intercepts her)
Great Scott! but you are splendid when you’re mad
Now, please, don’t go; I’m really not so bad:
I don’t mean half I say.
Girl (turns blazing eyes upon him)
Oh, all you men
Of pallid blood, again, and yet again
Have offered insults to our island races.
I own we once were savage; and the traces
Of those wild days remain; but, sir, go back
A little way, on your ancestral track,
And see what you will find. A horde of bold
And lawless cut-throats, started many an old
And purse-proud race; and brutal strength became
The bloody groundwork for pretentious fame
When Might was Right. If every royal tree
Were dug up by the roots, the world would see
That common mud first mothered the poor sprout.
Your race is higher than my own, no doubt;
Then shame upon you, for the poor display
Of noble manhood that you make to-day,
Thinking each brown-faced girl your lawful prey.