Chapter 13

THE SONG OF KUK-OOK, THE BAD BOY.This is the song of Kuk-ook, the bad boy.Imakayah—hayah,Imakayah—hah—hayah.I am going to run away from home, hayah,In a great big boat, hayah,To hunt for a sweet little girl, hayah;I shall get her some beads, hayah;The kind that look like boiled ones, hayah;Then after a while, hayah,I shall come back home, hayah,I shall call all my relations together, hayah,And shall give them all a good thrashing, hayah;Then I shall go and get married, hayah,I shall marry two girls at once, hayah;One of the sweet little darlings, hayah,I shall dress in spotted seal-skins, hayah,And the other dear little pet, hayah,Shall wear skins of the hooded seal only, hayah.

THE SONG OF KUK-OOK, THE BAD BOY.

This is the song of Kuk-ook, the bad boy.Imakayah—hayah,Imakayah—hah—hayah.I am going to run away from home, hayah,In a great big boat, hayah,To hunt for a sweet little girl, hayah;I shall get her some beads, hayah;The kind that look like boiled ones, hayah;Then after a while, hayah,I shall come back home, hayah,I shall call all my relations together, hayah,And shall give them all a good thrashing, hayah;Then I shall go and get married, hayah,I shall marry two girls at once, hayah;One of the sweet little darlings, hayah,I shall dress in spotted seal-skins, hayah,And the other dear little pet, hayah,Shall wear skins of the hooded seal only, hayah.

This is the song of Kuk-ook, the bad boy.

Imakayah—hayah,

Imakayah—hah—hayah.

I am going to run away from home, hayah,

In a great big boat, hayah,

To hunt for a sweet little girl, hayah;

I shall get her some beads, hayah;

The kind that look like boiled ones, hayah;

Then after a while, hayah,

I shall come back home, hayah,

I shall call all my relations together, hayah,

And shall give them all a good thrashing, hayah;

Then I shall go and get married, hayah,

I shall marry two girls at once, hayah;

One of the sweet little darlings, hayah,

I shall dress in spotted seal-skins, hayah,

And the other dear little pet, hayah,

Shall wear skins of the hooded seal only, hayah.

But you must not derive the idea from these specimens that the Eskimos are triflers and jesters only. Some of their poetical productions reveal a true and deep appreciation of the marvellous, the impressive, and the beautiful scenes which their land and climate present. Prominent featuresin their tales and chants are the flashing, variegated aurora, whose shooting streamers they fable to be the souls of departed heroes; the milky way, gleaming in the still Arctic night, which they regard as the bridge by which the souls of the good and brave mount to the place of joy; the vast, glittering, soundless snowfields; and the mighty, crashing glacier, splintering from his shoreward cliffs the ice mountains which float down to the great ocean.

As an instance of this appreciation of natural scenery I shall read you a song obtained by Dr. Rink, at the small trading station of Arsut on the southern coast of Greenland, near Frederickshaab. Close to Arsut stands Mt. Koonak, whose precipitous sides rise fully four thousand feet above the billows of the Atlantic which dash against its foot. It is the play of the clouds about the mountain which inspires the poet:

MOUNT KOONAK: A SONG OF ARSUT.I look toward the south, to great Mount Koonak,To great Mount Koonak, there to the south;I watch the clouds that gather round him;I contemplate their shining brightness;They spread abroad upon great Koonak;They climb up his seaward flanks;See how they shift and change;Watch them there to the south;How the one makes beautiful the other;How they mount his southern slopes,Hiding him from the stormy sea,Each lending beauty to the other.

MOUNT KOONAK: A SONG OF ARSUT.

I look toward the south, to great Mount Koonak,To great Mount Koonak, there to the south;I watch the clouds that gather round him;I contemplate their shining brightness;They spread abroad upon great Koonak;They climb up his seaward flanks;See how they shift and change;Watch them there to the south;How the one makes beautiful the other;How they mount his southern slopes,Hiding him from the stormy sea,Each lending beauty to the other.

I look toward the south, to great Mount Koonak,

To great Mount Koonak, there to the south;

I watch the clouds that gather round him;

I contemplate their shining brightness;

They spread abroad upon great Koonak;

They climb up his seaward flanks;

See how they shift and change;

Watch them there to the south;

How the one makes beautiful the other;

How they mount his southern slopes,

Hiding him from the stormy sea,

Each lending beauty to the other.

No doubt there were and are many historical or traditionalsongs among the natives; but I should have little hope of deriving from them much information of a really historical character. Their references to occurrences are very vague, and rather in the form of suggestion than narration. The auditors are supposed to be familiar with the story, and a single name or prominent word is enough to recall it to their minds.

I may illustrate this by a short Pawnee song sent me by Mr. Dunbar, whose intimate acquaintance with the language and customs of that tribe lends entire authority to all he writes about them.

About 1820 the Pawnees captured a young girl from their enemies the Paducas, and according to custom, prepared to burn her alive. On the appointed day she was fastened to the stake, and the village gathered around in order to commence the tortures which were to precede her death. At that moment a young Pawnee brave, by namePitale-Sharu, whose heart had been touched with pity and perhaps with love, dashed madly into the ring with two fleet horses. In a moment with his ready knife he had slit the thongs which fastened the girl to the stake, had thrown her on one horse, himself on the other, and was speeding away on the prairie toward her father’s village. The Pawnees were literally stricken dumb. They retired silently to their cabins, and when, three days later, Pitale-Sharu returned to the village, no man challenged his action. All regarded it as an act of divine inspiration, even to inquire about which would be sacrilege. This act is remembered to this day in the tribe, and commemorated in the following song:

A PAWNEE COMMEMORATIVE SONG.Well, he foretold this,Well, he foretold this,Yes, he foretold this;I, Pitale-Sharu,Am arrived here.Well, he foretold this,Yes, he foretold this,I, Pitale Sharu,Am arrived here.

A PAWNEE COMMEMORATIVE SONG.

Well, he foretold this,Well, he foretold this,Yes, he foretold this;I, Pitale-Sharu,Am arrived here.Well, he foretold this,Yes, he foretold this,I, Pitale Sharu,Am arrived here.

Well, he foretold this,

Yes, he foretold this;

I, Pitale-Sharu,

Am arrived here.

Well, he foretold this,

Yes, he foretold this,

I, Pitale Sharu,

Am arrived here.

One of the Pawnee war-songs has a curious metaphysical turn. It is one which is sung when a warrior undertakes to perform some particularly daring individual exploit, which may well cost him his life. The words seem to call upon the gods to decide whether this mortal life is only an illusion, or a divine truth under the guidance of divine intelligence.

PAWNEE WAR-SONG.Let us see, is this real,Let us see, is this real,Let us see, is this real,Let us see, is this real,This life I am living?Ye gods, who dwell everywhere,Let us see, is this real,This life I am living?

PAWNEE WAR-SONG.

Let us see, is this real,Let us see, is this real,Let us see, is this real,Let us see, is this real,This life I am living?Ye gods, who dwell everywhere,Let us see, is this real,This life I am living?

Let us see, is this real,

This life I am living?

Ye gods, who dwell everywhere,

Let us see, is this real,

This life I am living?

The so-called Indian medicine-songs cannot be understood without a thorough insight into the habits and superstitions of these peoples, and it would only fatigue you were I to repeat them to you.

I prefer to turn to some of the less esoteric productions ofthe native muse, to some of its expressions of those emotions which are common to mankind everywhere, and which everywhere seek their expression in meter and rhythm.

A recent German traveler, Mr. Theodore Baker, furnishes me with a couple of simple, unpretending but genuinely aboriginal songs which he heard among the Kioway Indians. One is a

SONG OF A KIOWAY MOTHER WHOSE SON HAS GONE TO WAR.Young men there are in plenty,But I love only one;Him I’ve not seen for long,Though he is my only son.When he comes, I’ll haste to meet him,I think of him all night;He too will be glad to see me,His eyes will gleam with delight.

SONG OF A KIOWAY MOTHER WHOSE SON HAS GONE TO WAR.

Young men there are in plenty,But I love only one;Him I’ve not seen for long,Though he is my only son.

Young men there are in plenty,

But I love only one;

Him I’ve not seen for long,

Though he is my only son.

When he comes, I’ll haste to meet him,I think of him all night;He too will be glad to see me,His eyes will gleam with delight.

When he comes, I’ll haste to meet him,

I think of him all night;

He too will be glad to see me,

His eyes will gleam with delight.

The second example from the Kioways is a song of true love in the ordinary sense. Such are rare among the North American Indians anywhere. Most of their chants in relation to the other sex are erotic, not emotional; and this holds equally true of those which in some tribes on certain occasions are addressed by the women to the men. The one I give you from the Kioway is not open to this censure

A KIOWAY LOVE-SONG.I sat and wept on the hill-side,I wept till the darkness fellI wept for a maiden afar offA maiden who loves me wellThe moons are passing, and some moonI shall see my home long-lost,And of all the greetings that meet me,My maiden’s will gladden me most.

A KIOWAY LOVE-SONG.

I sat and wept on the hill-side,I wept till the darkness fellI wept for a maiden afar offA maiden who loves me well

I sat and wept on the hill-side,

I wept till the darkness fell

I wept for a maiden afar off

A maiden who loves me well

The moons are passing, and some moonI shall see my home long-lost,And of all the greetings that meet me,My maiden’s will gladden me most.

The moons are passing, and some moon

I shall see my home long-lost,

And of all the greetings that meet me,

My maiden’s will gladden me most.

A specimen of a characteristic Chipeway love-song is given in one of the works of the late Henry R. Schoolcraft. It was chanted by the lover, at night, in front of the dwelling of the girl he would captivate. The song is in four verses, and it will be noticed that each verse approaches nearer and nearer the final request. It should be understood that each verse was to be repeated several times, so as to give the fair one an opportunity to express her approval or disapproval by some of those signs which belong to the freemasonry of love the world over. If the sign was negative and repelling, the singer abruptly ceased his chant and retired, concealed by the darkness of the night; but if he was encouraged, or heard without rebuke, he continued, in hope that at the close of the song timid fingers would partially draw aside the curtain which closes the lodge door, and that his prayer would be granted.

The serenade runs as follows:

SERENADE SONG OF A CHIPEWAY LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.I would walk into somebody’s dwelling,Into somebody’s dwelling would I walk.Intothydarkened dwelling, my beloved,Some night would I walk, would I walk.Some night at this season, my beloved,Into thy darkened dwelling would I walk.On this very night, my beloved,Into thy darkened dwelling would I walk.

SERENADE SONG OF A CHIPEWAY LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

I would walk into somebody’s dwelling,Into somebody’s dwelling would I walk.

I would walk into somebody’s dwelling,

Into somebody’s dwelling would I walk.

Intothydarkened dwelling, my beloved,Some night would I walk, would I walk.

Intothydarkened dwelling, my beloved,

Some night would I walk, would I walk.

Some night at this season, my beloved,Into thy darkened dwelling would I walk.

Some night at this season, my beloved,

Into thy darkened dwelling would I walk.

On this very night, my beloved,Into thy darkened dwelling would I walk.

On this very night, my beloved,

Into thy darkened dwelling would I walk.

While dealing with these amatory effusions, I will add one or two from another part of the map, from the tribes who make their home in our sister republic, Mexico. You are aware that there are many tribes there barely tinged with European culture or religion. They retain the ancestral tongues and modes of thought. The sword and whip of the Spaniard compelled an external obedience to church and state, but the deference to either was reluctant, and in the minimum degree. Consequently, there also the field for research is rich and practically uncultivated. To employ a native metaphor, frequent in the Aztec poets, I will cause you to smell the fragrance of a few of the flowers I have gathered from those meads.

My late friend, Dr. Berendt, personally known, I doubt not, to some present, obtained a curious Aztec love-song from the lips of an Indian girl in the Sierra of Tamaulipas. It is particularly noticeable from the strange, mystical conceit it contains that to the person who truly loves, the mere bodily presence or absence of the beloved object is unimportant, nay, not even noticed. The literal translation of this song is as follows:

I know not whether thou hast been absent:I lie down with thee, I rise up with thee,In my dreams thou art with me.If my ear drops tremble in my ears,I know it is thou moving within my heart.

I know not whether thou hast been absent:

I lie down with thee, I rise up with thee,

In my dreams thou art with me.

If my ear drops tremble in my ears,

I know it is thou moving within my heart.

This rough rendering has been put into metrical form as follows:

A MODERN AZTEC LOVE-SONG.I knew it not that thou hadst absent been,So full thy presence all my soul had left;By night, by day, in quiet or changing scene,’Tis thee alone I see, sense of all else bereft.And when the tinkling pendants sway and ring,’Tis thou who in my heart dost move and sing.

A MODERN AZTEC LOVE-SONG.

I knew it not that thou hadst absent been,So full thy presence all my soul had left;By night, by day, in quiet or changing scene,’Tis thee alone I see, sense of all else bereft.And when the tinkling pendants sway and ring,’Tis thou who in my heart dost move and sing.

I knew it not that thou hadst absent been,

So full thy presence all my soul had left;

By night, by day, in quiet or changing scene,

’Tis thee alone I see, sense of all else bereft.

And when the tinkling pendants sway and ring,

’Tis thou who in my heart dost move and sing.

In another love-song in the same language I have met a conceit which I distinctly remember to have read in some old English poet, that of a lover who complains that his heart has been gathered in along with her flowers by a maiden picking roses.

The literal translation of this song reads thus:

On a certain mountain side,Where they pluck flowers,I saw a pretty maiden,Who plucked from me my heart.Whither thou goest,There go I.

On a certain mountain side,

Where they pluck flowers,

I saw a pretty maiden,

Who plucked from me my heart.

Whither thou goest,

There go I.

As a metrical expansion of this couplet the following has been suggested:

AZTEC LOVE-SONG.Do you know that mountain sideWhere they gather roses?There I strolled one eventideIn the garden closes.Soon I met a lovely maidFairer than all fancies,Quick she gathered in my heartWith her buds and pansies,But take heed, my pretty may,In reaping and in sowing,Once with thee, I’ll ever stay,And go where thou art going.

AZTEC LOVE-SONG.

Do you know that mountain sideWhere they gather roses?There I strolled one eventideIn the garden closes.Soon I met a lovely maidFairer than all fancies,Quick she gathered in my heartWith her buds and pansies,But take heed, my pretty may,In reaping and in sowing,Once with thee, I’ll ever stay,And go where thou art going.

Do you know that mountain side

Where they gather roses?

There I strolled one eventide

In the garden closes.

Soon I met a lovely maid

Fairer than all fancies,

Quick she gathered in my heart

With her buds and pansies,

But take heed, my pretty may,

In reaping and in sowing,

Once with thee, I’ll ever stay,

And go where thou art going.

Perhaps the refinement of some of these sentiments may excite skepticism. It is a favorite doctrine among a certain class of writers that delicacy of sexual feeling is quite unknown among savage tribes, that, indeed, the universal law is that mere bestiality prevails, more or less kept in bounds by superstition and tribal law. I am well acquainted with this theory of several popular philosophers, and do not in the least accept it. Any such dogmatic assertion is unscientific. Delicacy of sentiment bears no sort of constant relation to culture. Every man present knows this. He can name among his acquaintances men of unusual culture who are coarse voluptuaries, and others of the humblest education who have the delicacy of a refined woman. So it is with families, and so it is with tribes. I have illustrated this lately by an analysis of the words meaning “to love” in all its senses in five leading American linguistic stocks, and have shown by the irrefragable proof of language how much they differ in this respect, and how much also the same tribe may differ from itself at various periods of its growth. As the result of this and similar studies I may assure you that there is no occasion for questioning the existence of highly delicate sentiments among some of the American tribes.

As I found the Mexican love poems the most delicate, so I have found their war songs the most stirring. We have a number of specimens written down in the native tongueshortly after the conquest. They have never been translated or published, but I will give you a rendering of one in my possession which, from intrinsic evidence, was written about 1510. I saywrittenadvisedly, for the nation who sang these songs possessed a phonetic alphabet, and wrote many volumes of poems by its aid. Their historian, Bernardino de Sahagun, especially mentions that the works used for the instruction of youth in their schools contained “poems written in antique characters.”

The first of my selections is supposed to be addressed by the poet to certain friends of his who were unwilling to go to war.

A WAR-SONG OF THE OTOMIS.

1. It grieves me, dear friends, that you walk not with me in spirit, that I have not your company in the scenes of joy and pleasure, that never more in union do we seek the same paths.

2. Do you really see me, dear friends? Will no God take the blindness from your eyes? What is life on earth? Can the dead return? No, they live far within the heavens, in a place of joy.

3. The joy of the Lord, the Giver of Life, is where the warriors sing, and the smoke of the war-fire rises up; where the flowers of the shields spread abroad their leaves; where deeds of valor shake the earth; where the fatal flowers of death cover the fields.

4. The battle is there, the beginning of the battle is there, in the open fields, where the smoke of the war-fire winds around and curls upward from the fatal war flowers which adorn you, ye friends and warriors of the Chichimecs.

5. Let not my soul dread that open field; I earnestly desire the beginning of the slaughter, my soul longs for the murderous fray.

6. O you who stand there in the battle, I earnestly desire the beginning of the slaughter, my soul longs for the murderous fray.

7. The war-cloud rises upward, it rises into the blue sky where dwells the Giver of Life; in it blossom forth the flowers of prowess and valor, beneath it, in the battle field, the children ripen to maturity.

8. Rejoice with me, dear friends, and do ye rejoice, ye children, going forth to the open field of battle; let us rejoice and revel amid these shields, flowers of the murderous fray.

The song which I have just read, like most which I bring before you, has no name of author. The poet has passed to an eternal oblivion, though his work remains. More fortunate is the composer of the next one I shall read you. It is a poem by an Aztec prince and bard who bore the sonorous appellation,Tetlapan Quetzanitzin. I can tell you little about him. At the time Cortes entered the City of Mexico, Tetlapan Quetzanitzin was ruler of one of its suburbs, Tlacopan or Tacuba. At the interview when the daring Spaniard seized upon the person of Montezuma and made him a captive, this Tetlapan was one of the attendants of the Aztec monarch, and it is recorded of him that he made his escape and disappeared. I have found no mention of his subsequent adventures.

This war-song is one of two of his poems which have survived the wreck of the ancient literature. It is highly metaphorical. You might at first think it a drinking song; but the drunkenness it refers to is the intoxication of battle, theBerserkerwuthof the Norse Vikings; the flowers which he sings are the war-shields with their gay ornaments; and the fertile plains which he lauds are those which are watered with the blood of heroes. Finally, I should tell you that the white wine he speaks of was a sacred beverageamong the Mexicans, set forth at certain solemn festivals. Like the rest of their wine, it was manufactured from the maguey.

A WAR-SONG OF TETLAPAN QUETZANITZIN (1519).

1. Why did it grieve you, O friends, why did it pain you, that you were drunk with the wine? Arise from your stupor, O friends, come hither and sing; let us seek for homes in some flowery land; forget your drunkenness.

2. The precept is old that one should quaff the strong white wine in the moment of difficulty, as when one enters the battle-plain, when he goes forth to the place of shattered stones, where the precious stones are splintered, the emeralds, the turquoises, the youths, the children. Therefore, friends and brothers, quaff now the flowing white wine.

3. Let us drink together amid the flowers, let us build our houses among the flowers, where the fragrant blossoms cast abroad their odors as a fountain its waters, where the breath of the dew-laden flowers makes sweet the air; there it is that nobility and strength will make glorious our houses, there the flowers of war bloom over a fertile land.

4. O friends, do you not hear me? Let us go, let us go, let us pour forth the white wine, the strong wine of battle; let us drink the wine which is as sweet as the dew of roses, let it intoxicate our souls, let our souls be steeped in its delights, let them be enriched as in some opulent place, some fertile land. Why does it trouble you? Come with me, and listen to my song.

Alongside of these specimens from Mexico, I put a war-song of the Peruvians. It is from the drama ofOllanta, a production dating from shortly before the conquest, and one of the most interesting monuments of American native literature. The hero, Ollanta, a warrior of renown but of humble parentage, had, on the strength of his successesagainst the enemy, applied for the hand of the Inca’s daughter, and had been rejected with scorn. All his loyalty and allegiance turnsto hatred, and he sings his war-song against his native country and its ruler in these words:

A WAR-SONG OF OLLANTA.O Cuzco, beautiful city,Henceforward I shall be thy enemy.I shall break the walls of thy bosom,I shall tear out thy heartAnd fling it to the vultures.Thy cruel king shall witnessMy thousands of warriors,Armed and led by me,Gather, like a cloud of curses,Against thy citadel.The sky shall be red with thy burning,Bloody shall thy couch be,And thy king shall perish with thee.Gasping in death, with my hand on his throat,We shall see if again he will say:“Thou art unworthy of my daughter,Never shall she be thine.”

A WAR-SONG OF OLLANTA.

O Cuzco, beautiful city,Henceforward I shall be thy enemy.I shall break the walls of thy bosom,I shall tear out thy heartAnd fling it to the vultures.Thy cruel king shall witnessMy thousands of warriors,Armed and led by me,Gather, like a cloud of curses,Against thy citadel.The sky shall be red with thy burning,Bloody shall thy couch be,And thy king shall perish with thee.Gasping in death, with my hand on his throat,We shall see if again he will say:“Thou art unworthy of my daughter,Never shall she be thine.”

O Cuzco, beautiful city,

Henceforward I shall be thy enemy.

I shall break the walls of thy bosom,

I shall tear out thy heart

And fling it to the vultures.

Thy cruel king shall witness

My thousands of warriors,

Armed and led by me,

Gather, like a cloud of curses,

Against thy citadel.

The sky shall be red with thy burning,

Bloody shall thy couch be,

And thy king shall perish with thee.

Gasping in death, with my hand on his throat,

We shall see if again he will say:

“Thou art unworthy of my daughter,

Never shall she be thine.”

A variety of poetic production of frequent occurrence among the aborigines is the prophetic. You are aware that it is by no means peculiar to them; the oracle at Delphi, the sibylline leaves in the Capitol, the words of the Hebrew seers, even the forecasts of Nostradamus, were usually cast in poetic form. The effort to lift the veil of futurity is one ineradicable from the human breast, and faith in its possibility is universal. Those prophets who are wise, those augurs who pass the wink to each other, favor greatobscurity and ambiguity in their communications, or else express themselves in such commonplaces as that man is mortal; that all beauty fadeth; that power is transitory, and the like. We find both kinds flourished in ancient America. You may remember that Montezuma in his first interview with Cortes told the Spanish invader that the arrival of a white and bearded conqueror from the East had long been predicted by Mexican soothsayers. Similar prophecies were current in Yucatan, in Peru, and in other portions of the continent. They are all easily explained, and there is no occasion either to question the fact, or to seek for them any supernatural inspiration. It would lead me away from my theme to enter into a discussion of their meaning, but I should like to read you two brief examples of them. Both are from the Maya language of Yucatan, and I have no doubt both antedate the conquest. The first, according to an expression in the poem itself, was composed in the year 1469. It was the prediction of a Maya priest at the close of the indiction or cycle which terminated in that year of our chronology.

THE PROPHECY OF PECH, PRIEST OF CHICHEN-ITZA (1469).Ye men of Itzá, hearken to the tidings,Listen to the forecaste of this cycle’s end;Four have been the ages of the world’s progressing.Now the fourth is ending, and its end is near.A mighty lord is coming, see you give him honor;A potent lord approaches, to whom all must bow;I, the prophet, warn you, keep in mind my boding,Men of Itzá, mark it, and await your lord.

THE PROPHECY OF PECH, PRIEST OF CHICHEN-ITZA (1469).

Ye men of Itzá, hearken to the tidings,Listen to the forecaste of this cycle’s end;Four have been the ages of the world’s progressing.Now the fourth is ending, and its end is near.A mighty lord is coming, see you give him honor;A potent lord approaches, to whom all must bow;I, the prophet, warn you, keep in mind my boding,Men of Itzá, mark it, and await your lord.

Ye men of Itzá, hearken to the tidings,

Listen to the forecaste of this cycle’s end;

Four have been the ages of the world’s progressing.

Now the fourth is ending, and its end is near.

A mighty lord is coming, see you give him honor;

A potent lord approaches, to whom all must bow;

I, the prophet, warn you, keep in mind my boding,

Men of Itzá, mark it, and await your lord.

The second example of these mystic chants which I shall give you is from a curious native production called, “The Book of Chilan Balam,” a repertory of wild imaginings and scraps of ancient and modern magical lore, which is the very Bible of the Maya Indians. Although I have a copy of it, I have been unable to translate any large portion of it, and my correspondents in Yucatan, though some of them speak Maya as readily as Spanish, find the expressions too archaic and obscure to be intelligible. This particular song is that of the priest and soothsayer Chilan, from whom the sacred book takes its name. There is every reason to believe that it dates from the fifteenth century.

RECITAL OF THE PRIEST CHILAN.Eat, eat, while there is bread,Drink, drink, while there is water;A day comes when dust shall darken the air,When a blight shall wither the land,When a cloud shall arise,When a mountain shall be lifted up,When a strong man shall seize the city,When ruin shall fall upon all things,When the tender leaf shall be destroyed,When eyes shall be closed in death;When there shall be three signs on a tree,Father, son and grandson hanging dead on the same tree;When the battle flag shall be raised,And the people scattered abroad in the forests.

RECITAL OF THE PRIEST CHILAN.

Eat, eat, while there is bread,Drink, drink, while there is water;A day comes when dust shall darken the air,When a blight shall wither the land,When a cloud shall arise,When a mountain shall be lifted up,When a strong man shall seize the city,When ruin shall fall upon all things,When the tender leaf shall be destroyed,When eyes shall be closed in death;When there shall be three signs on a tree,Father, son and grandson hanging dead on the same tree;When the battle flag shall be raised,And the people scattered abroad in the forests.

Eat, eat, while there is bread,

Drink, drink, while there is water;

A day comes when dust shall darken the air,

When a blight shall wither the land,

When a cloud shall arise,

When a mountain shall be lifted up,

When a strong man shall seize the city,

When ruin shall fall upon all things,

When the tender leaf shall be destroyed,

When eyes shall be closed in death;

When there shall be three signs on a tree,

Father, son and grandson hanging dead on the same tree;

When the battle flag shall be raised,

And the people scattered abroad in the forests.

Such poems properly belong to the mythologic class. This class was fully represented in the productions of theprimitive bards, but chiefly owing to the prejudices of the early missionaries, the examples remaining are few.

I could continue to bring before you specimens of this quaint and ancient lore. My garner is by no means emptied. But probably I have said enough for my purpose. You see that the study of the aboriginal poetry of our continent opens up an unexpectedly rich field for investigation. It throws a new light not only on the folk songs of other nations, but on the general history of the growth of the poetic faculty. More than this, it elevates our opinion of the nations whom we are accustomed to call by the terms savage and barbarous. We are taught that in much which we are inclined to claim as our special prerogatives, they too have an interest. In the most precious possessions of the race, in its aspirations for the infinite and the forever true, they also have a share. They likewise partake, and in no mean degree, of that sweetest heritage of man, the glorious gift of song, “the vision and the faculty divine.”

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