Standing motionless near the rock?

Why can their brother not go and take away

The plumes with which they have adorned their heads?

Goloane, thy praises are like the thick haze

Which precedes the rain:

Thy songs of triumph are heard in the mountains;

They go down to the valleys

Where the enemy knelt before

The cowardly warriors!... They pray!...

They beg that food may be given to them—