In the morning they arise
with headaches and heavy eyes; but these symptoms, which we, an
industrious race, deprecate, are not disliked by the Somal--they promote
sleep and give something to occupy the vacant mind. I usually slumber
through the noise except when Ambar, a half-caste Somal, returning from a
trip to Harar, astounds us with his _contes bleus_, or wild Abtidon howls
forth some lay like this:--
I.
"'Tis joyesse all in Eesa's home!
The fatted oxen bleed,
And slave girls range the pails of milk,
And strain the golden mead.
II.
"'Tis joyesse all in Eesa's home!
This day the Chieftain's pride
Shall join the song, the dance, the feast,
And bear away a bride.
III.
"'He cometh not!' the father cried,
Smiting with spear the wall;
'And yet he sent the ghostly man,
Yestre'en before the fall!'
IV.
"'He cometh not!' the mother said,
A tear stood in her eye;
'He cometh not, I dread, I dread,
And yet I know not why.'
V.
"'He cometh not!' the maiden thought,
Yet in her glance was light,
Soft as the flash in summer's eve
Where sky and earth unite.
VI.
"The virgins, deck'd with tress and flower,
Danced in the purple shade,
And not a soul, perchance, but wished
Herself the chosen maid.
VII.
"The guests in groups sat gathering
Where sunbeams warmed the air,
Some laughed the feasters' laugh, and some
Wore the bent brow of care.
VIII.
"'Tis he!--'tis he!"--all anxious peer,
Towards the distant lea;
A courser feebly nears the throng--
Ah! 'tis his steed they see.
IX.
"The grief cry bursts from every lip,
Fear sits on every brow,
There's blood upon the courser's flank!--
Blood on the saddle bow!
X.
"'Tis he!--'tis he!'--all arm and run
Towards the Marar Plain,
Where a dark horseman rides the waste
With dust-cloud for a train.
XI.
"The horseman reins his foam-fleckt steed,
Leans on his broken spear,
Wipes his damp brow, and faint begins
To tell a tale of fear.
XII.
"'Where is my son?'--'Go seek him there,
Far on the Marar Plain,
Where vultures and hyaenas hold
Their orgies o'er the slain.
XIII.
"'We took our arms, we saddled horse,
We rode the East countrie,
And drove the flocks, and harried herds
Betwixt the hills and sea.
XIV.
"'We drove the flock across the hill,
The herd across the wold--
The poorest spearboy had returned
That day, a man of gold.
XV.
"'Bat Awal's children mann'd the vale
Where sweet the Arman flowers,
Their archers from each bush and tree
Rained shafts in venomed showers.
XVI.
"'Full fifty warriors bold and true
Fell as becomes the brave;
And whom the arrow spared, the spear
Reaped for the ravening grave.
