Oh! Hush thee – hush my baby,

I may not tend thee yet.

Our forest-home is distant far,

And midnight's star is set.

Now hush thee – or the pale-faced men

Will hear thy piercing wail,

And what then would thy mother's tears

Or feeble strength avail!

Oh, couldst thy little bosom,

That mother's torture feel,

Or could’st thy know thy father lies

Struck down by English steel;

Thy tender form would wither,

Like the kniven in the sand,

And the spirit of my perished tribe

Would vanish from our land.

For thy young life my precious,

I fly the field of blood,

Else had I, for my chieftain's sake,

Defied them where they stood;

But basely bound my woman's arm,

No weapon might it wield:

I could but cling round him I loved,

To make my heart a shield.

I saw my firstborn treasure

Lie headless at my feet,

The goro on this hapless breast,

In his life-stream is wet!

And thou! I snatched thee from thy sword,

It harmless passed by thee!

But clave the binding chords – and gave,

Haply, the power to flee.

To flee! My babe – but wither?

Without my friend – my guide?

The blood that was our strength is shed!

He is not by my side!

Thy sire! Oh! Never, never

Shall Toon Bakra hear our cry:

My bold and stately mountain-bird!

I thought not he could die.

Now who will teach thee, dearest,

To poise the shield and spear,

To wield the koopin, or to throw

The boommering, void of fear;

To breast the river in its might;

The mountain tracks to tread?

The echoes of my homeless heart

Reply – the dead, the dead!

And ever must the murmur

Like an ocean torrent flow:

The parted voice comes never back,

To cheer our lonely woe:

Even in the region of our tribe,

Beside our summer streams,

’Tis but a hollow symphony –

In the shadow-land of dreams.