The forests are thine, Ilogo!
The rivers are thine, Ilogo!
The moon is thine!
O moon! O moon! O moon!
Thou art the house of Ilogo!
Shall the king die? Ilogo!
O Ilogo! O moon! O moon!"[97]
In African caravans or processions, there is a man chosen to go in front and sing, brandishing a stick somewhat after the manner of our band-masters. The song is rather an indifferent howl, with little or no relevancy. It is a position much sought after, and affords abundant opportunity for the display of the voice. Such a person feels the dignity of the position. The following is a sample:—
"Shove him on!
But is he a good man?
No, I think he's a stingy fellow;
Shove him on!
Let him drop in the road, then.
No, he has a big stick:
Shove him on!
Oh, matta-bicho! matta-bicho!
Who will give me matta-bicho?"
Of this song Mr. Reade says,—
"Matta-bicho is a bunda compound meaning kill-worm; the natives supposing that their entrails are tormented by a small worm, which it is necessary to kill with raw spirits. From the frequency of their demand, it would seem to be the worm that ever gnaws, and that their thirst is the fire which is never quenched."
The Griot, as we have already mentioned, sings for money. He is a most accomplished parasite and flatterer. He makes a study of the art. Here is one of his songs gotten up for the occasion.
I.
"The man who had not feared to pass the seas through a love of study and of science heard of the poor Griot. He had him summoned. He made him sing songs which made the echoes of the Bornou mountains, covered with palm-trees, ring louder and louder as the sounds flew over the summits of the trees.
II.
"The songs touched the heart of the great white man, and the dew of his magnificence fell upon the Griot's head. Oh! how can he sing the wonderful deeds of the Toubab? His voice and his breath would not be strong enough to sing that theme. He must be silent, and let the lion of the forest sing his battles and his victories.
III.
"Fatimata heard the songs of the Griot. She heard, too, the deeds which the Toubab had accomplished. She sighed, and covered her head with her robe. Then she turned to her young lover, and she said, 'Go to the wars; let the flying ball kill thee: for Fatimata loves thee no longer. The white man fills her thoughts.'"
The most beautiful nursery song ever sung by any mother, in any language, may be heard in the Balengi county, in Central Africa. There is wonderful tenderness in it,—tenderness that would melt the coldest heart. It reveals a bright spot in the heart-life of this people.[98]
"Why dost than weep, my child?
The sky is bright; the sun is shining: why dost than weep?
Go to thy father: he loves thee; go, tell him why thou weepest.
What! thou weepest still! Thy father loves thee; I caress thee:
yet still thou art sad.
Tell me then, my child, why dost thou weep?"