The warriors of the enemy, ranged in a line,
Fling their javelins together;
They fatigue themselves in vain:
The father of Moatla rushes into their midst,
He wounds a man in the arm
Before the eyes of his mother,
Who sees him fall,
Ah! Where is the head of the son of Sebegoane?
It has rolled to the middle of his native town.
I entered victorious into his dwelling,