Now o’er the hills the lubras come,
In Indian file, by one and one;
Each bears the produce of the day,
Of roots, and herbs, and wallaby.
With weary step they hasten down,
And cast their burdens on the ground,
And cooey for their absent child,
And waiting—gossip ere the while:
“How at the last corrobboree,
Ngamma’s familiarity
With Yerku, shock’d all decency,
Hence Bultawilta’s jealousy.
“How saucy Tekartoo behav’d,
While her husband in palti play’d;
And caused the stranger’s sly advance,
And quarrelling, broke up the dance:
“What dreadful things the burkas said,
For Tau had ate the sacred leg;
How Kuinyo would at night appear,
With stomach vast, and snaky hair.
“And Paune’s wonderful escape
From cunning sorcerer’s deadly hate,
As in the reeds he hiding lay,
A bird by night, a bush by day.”
Murmurs confus’d sound o’er the hill.
Now near, then far, now loud, then shrill;
Soon seen are many hunters bold,
Like full of game and tales untold!
To the camp they are drawing near,
Very emulous to appear!
Each more famous than the other,
In the sight of wife and mother.
Did ever see such kangaroo,
As now borne past in grand review,
Besides the fattest of emu?—
Prais’d be the Manurapindoo!
All stare, and gloat, and feast their eyes,
As the game spread forth in glory lies;
The kuttas soon at work resound,
And women, joking, dig the ground.