Song
Wai-aleale stands haughty and cold,
Her lehua bloom, fog-soaked, droops pensive;
The thorn-fringe set ahout swampy Ai-po is
A feather that flaunts in spite of the pinching frost.
Her herbage is pelted, stung by the rain;
Bruised all her petals, and moaning in cold
Mokihana’s sun, his wat’ry beams.
I have acted in good faith and honor,
My complaint is only to you—