Robinson, of Little River, Canterbury, chanted his dirge with a force and intensity that thrilled his hearers. In a short address to the dead Premier, he referred to him as the sweet-singing bird of the dawning day, the bright star of the morning, the great one of the earth. He then sang:
Keen blows the nor’-west wind,
Wind from the Mountain-land,
Bringing sad thoughts of thee.
Where, O Hetana, art thou gone?
Perhaps in council-hall thou’rt laid,
To await thy people’s coming.
Yes, there lies thy mortal shell,
Resting at last
From its many, from its innumerable travels,
From its ceaseless going to and fro.
Yes, thou return’d’st to thy people
Round yonder mountain-cape,
Back to thy dwelling-place—
Rest from thy travels!
O well-beloved one,
Sharp pangs dart through my soul,
O lordly totara-tree,
The pride of Tane’s woods,
Thou’rt lowly laid,
As was the canoe of Rata,
The son of Tane launched
For vengeance on the slayer Matuku,
Who soon himself was slain.
’Twas thou alone that Death didst pluck
From the midst of living men,
And now thou stand’st alone
Like the bright star of morning;
For us naught but sad memories;
Sleep soundly, Friend!
Wi Pere, who represented the Eastern Maori district in Parliament for many years, was the next speaker. “Farewell,”’ he cried, “Farewell, O friend of mine! Depart to the Great Night, to Po, that opens wide for you.” When he began his tribal funeral chant he was joined by his people of Te Aitanga-a-Mahaki, Te Rongowhakaata, and Ngatiporou in the stentorian song:—
Farewell, O Friend!
Depart to thine ancestral company.
