Across the tufted grass of the plain;
I take them from the shepherd with the white and yellow shield.
Go up on the high rocks of Macate;
See the white cow run into the midst of the herd.
A Makose will no longer despise my club;
The grass grows in his deserted pens,
The wind sweeps the thatch
From his ruined huts;
The humming of the goats is the only noise that is heard
In his town, once so gay.