got no satisfactory account from them. Said at
first said, 'Oh, they sing of Rubee' (God). 'What do you mean?' I
replied, impatiently. 'Oh, don't you know?' he continued, 'they asked
God to give them their Atka?' (certificate of freedom). I inquired, 'Is
that all?' Said: 'No; they say, "Where are we going? The world is large.
O God! Where are we going? O God!"' I inquired, 'What else?' Said: 'They
remember their country, Bornou, and say, "Bornou was a pleasant country,
full of all good things; but this is a bad country, and we are
miserable!"' 'Do they say anything else?' Said: 'No; they repeat these
words over and over again, and add, "O God! give us our Atka, and let us
return again to our dear home."'

"I am not surprised I got little satisfaction when I asked the Moors
about the songs of their slaves. Who will say that the above words are
not a very appropriate song? What could have been more congenially
adapted to their then woful condition? It is not to be wondered at that
these poor bondwomen cheer up their hearts, in their long, lonely, and
painful wanderings over the desert, with words and sentiments like
these; but I have often observed that their fatigue and sufferings were
too great for them to strike up this melancholy dirge, and many days
their plaintive strains never broke over the silence of the desert."--
Richardson's Journal in Africa.

WHERE are we going? where are we going,
Where are we going, Rubee?
Lord of peoples, lord of lands,
Look across these shining sands,
Through the furnace of the noon,
Through the white light of the moon.
Strong the Ghiblee wind is blowing,
Strange and large the world is growing!
Speak and tell us where we are going,
Where are we going, Rubee?

Bornou land was rich and good,
Wells of water, fields of food,
Dourra fields, and bloom of bean,
And the palm-tree cool and green
Bornou land we see no longer,
Here we thirst and here we hunger,
Here the Moor-man smites in anger
Where are we going, Rubee?

When we went from Bornou land,
We were like the leaves and sand,
We were many, we are few;
Life has one, and death has two
Whitened bones our path are showing,
Thou All-seeing, thou All-knowing
Hear us, tell us, where are we going,
Where are we going, Rubee?

Moons of marches from our eyes
Bornou land behind us lies;
Stra