Some a hole of just size prepare,
And leaves and stones arrange with care
Well heated these, and duly laid,
Thus the native oven is made.
The meal enjoy’d—their bodies greas’d
They chat and laugh, or loll at ease;
Hunting and warlike stories tell,
Of sorcery, magic, charm, or spell.
Of wondrous feats, and jerks, and jumps,
Of water-holes, and scrub and stumps;
Of narrow ’ scapes, and dreadful leaps,
Of swamps, and storms, and flooded creeks.
But there were none among the brave
So skill’d, so witty, or so grave,
Or could recite the tales of yore,
Which he knew by many a score.
Purley, the star—such was his name,
Through all the tribes had spread his fame
As hunter, warrior, burka wise,
In dance or song durst none despise.
Now him around, in circles sat—
The boys in front, the elders back;
With gaping mouths and wond’ring eyes,
They laugh and marvel with surprise!
The tribe enwrapp’d in shades of night,
While rows of fire are twinkling bright,
Loud wails the plaintive monotone,
To cure the pain, or soothe the gnome.
“Now behold the road before me,
How beautiful throughout Yerna,
Watteyernorlo Tappandē,
Miny-el-ity yarluke an-ambe.”
“Now to the water-hole we’ve come,
We two, together, at Tunte nung.”
Thus corrobories they sing,
How sweet the memories they bring.
But others, of more mournful frame,
Pierce the air in a tender strain,
Sing of the lost beloved one—
“O, why did you die! my son! my son!”