phs of Dinga, and is, withal,
exciting, and possessed of good movement. It is, in some instances,
much like the one quoted above:--

"Thou needy offspring of Umpikazi,
Eyer of the cattle of men;
Bird of Maube, fleet as a bullet,
Sleek, erect, of beautiful parts;
Thy cattle like the comb of the bees;
O head too large, too huddled to move;
Devourer of Moselekatze, son of Machobana;
Devourer of 'Swazi, son of Sobuza;
Breaker of the gates of Machobana;
Devourer of Gundave of Machobana;
A monster in size, of mighty power;
Devourer of Ungwati of ancient race;
Devourer of the kingly Uomape;
Like heaven above, raining and shining."

The poet has seen fit to refer to the early life of his hero, to call
attention to his boundless riches, and, finally, to celebrate his war
achievements. It is highly descriptive, and in the Kaffir language is
quite beautiful.

Tchaka sings a song himself, the ambitious sentiments of which would
have been worthy of Alexander the Great or Napoleon Bonaparte. He had
carried victory on his spear throughout all Kaffir-land. Everywhere
the tribes had bowed their submissive necks to his yoke; everywhere he
was hailed as king. But out of employment he was not happy. He sighed
for more tribes to conquer, and thus delivered himself:--

"Thou hast finished, finished the nations!
Where will you go out to battle now?
Hey! where will you go out to battle now?
Thou hast conquered kings!
Where are you going to battle now?
Thou hast finished, finished the nations!
Where are you going to battle now?
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
Where are you going to battle now?"

There is really something modern in this deep lament of the noble
savage!

The following war song of the Wollof, though it lacks the sonorous and
metrical elements of real poetry, contains true military
aggressiveness, mixed with the theology of the fatalist.

A WAR SONG.

"I go in front. I fear not death. I am not afraid. If I die,
I will take my blood to bathe my head.

"The man who fears nothing marches always in front, and is
never hit by the murderous ball. The coward hides himself
behind a bush, and is killed.

"Go to the battle. It is not lead that kills. It is Fate
which strikes us, and which makes us die."

Mr. Reade says of the musicians he met up the Senegal,--

"There are three classes of these