History of the Negro Race in America from 1619 to 1880
Chapter 10 : Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!Where are you going to battle now?"There is really somethin

Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!

Where are you going to battle now?"

There is really something modern in this deep lament of the n.o.ble 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 cla.s.ses of these public minstrels,--1, those who play such vulgar instruments as the flute and drum; 2, those who play on the ballafond, which is the marimba of Angola and South America, and on the harp; 3, those who sing the legends and battle-songs of their country, or who improvise satires or panegyrics. This last cla.s.s are dreaded, though despised. They are richly rewarded in their lifetime, but after death they are not even given a decent burial. If they were buried in the ground, it would become barren; if in the river, the water would be poisoned, and the fish would die: so they are buried in hollow trees.

_The idyllic poetry_ of Africa is very beautiful in its gorgeous native dress. It requires some knowledge of their mythology in order to thoroughly understand all their figures of speech. The following song is descriptive of the white man, and is the production of a Bushman.

"_In the blue palace of the deep sea Dwells a strange creature: His skin as white as salt; His hair long and tangled as the sea-weed.

He is more great than the princes of the earth; He is clothed with the skins of fishes,-- Fishes more beautiful than birds.

His house is built of bra.s.s rods; His garden is a forest of tobacco.

On his soil white beads are scattered Like sand-grains on the seash.o.r.e._"

The following idyl, extemporized by one of Stanley's black soldiers, on the occasion of reaching Lake Nyanza, possesses more energy of movement, perspicuity of style, and warm, glowing imagery, than any song of its character we have yet met with from the lips of unlettered Negroes. It is certainly a n.o.ble song of triumph. It swells as it rises in its mission of praise. It breathes the same victorious air of the song of Miriam: "_Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and the rider hath he thrown into the sea_." And in the last verse the child-nature of the singer riots like "The May Queen" of Tennyson.

THE SONG OF TRIUMPH.

"Sing, O friends, sing; the journey is ended: Sing aloud, O friends; sing to the great Nyanza.

Sing all, sing loud, O friends, sing to the great sea; Give your last look to the lands behind, and then turn to the sea.

Long time ago you left your lands, Your wives and children, your brothers and your friends; Tell me, have you seen a sea like this Since you left the great salt sea?

CHORUS.

Then sing, O friends! sing; the journey is ended: Sing aloud, O friend! sing to this great sea.

This sea is fresh, is good and sweet; Your sea is salt, and bad, unfit to drink.

This sea is like wine to drink for thirsty men; The salt sea--bah! it makes men sick.

Lift up your heads, O men, and gaze around; Try if you can see its end.

See, it stretches moons away, This great, sweet, fresh-water sea.

We come from Usuk.u.ma land, The land of pastures, cattle, sheep and goats, The land of braves, warriors, and strong men, And, lo! this is the far-known Usuk.u.ma sea.

Ye friends, ye scorned at us in other days.

Ah, ha! w.a.n.gwana. What say ye now?

Ye have seen the land, its pastures and its herds, Ye now see the far-known Usuk.u.ma sea.

Kaduma's land is just below; He is rich in cattle, sheep, and goats.

The Msungu is rich in cloth and beads; His hand is open, and his heart is free.

To-morrow the Msungu must make us strong With meat and beer, wine and grain.

We shall dance and play the livelong day, And eat and drink, and sing and play."

_The religious and miscellaneous poetry_ is not of the highest order.

One of the most remarkable men of the Kaffir tribe was Sicana, a powerful chief and a Christian. He was a poet, and composed hymns, which he repeated to his people till they could retain them upon their memories. The following is a specimen of his poetical abilities, and which the people are still accustomed to sing to a low monotonous air:--

"Ulin guba inkulu siambata tina Ulodali bom' unadali pezula, Umdala undala idala izula, Yebinza inquinquis zixeliela.

UTIKA umkula gozizuline, Yebinza inquinquis nozilimele.

Umze uakonana subiziele, Umkokeli ua sikokeli tina, Uenza infama zenza go bomi; Imali inkula subiziele, Wena wena q'aba inyaniza, Wena wena kaka linyaniza, Wena wena klati linyaniza; Invena inh'inani subiziele, Ugaze laku ziman' heba wena, Usanhla zaku ziman' heba wena, Umkokili ua, sikokeli tina: Ulodali bom' uadali pezula, Umdala uadala idala izula."

TRANSLATION.

"Mantle of comfort! G.o.d of love!

The Ancient One on high!

Who guides the firmament above, The heavens, and starry sky;

Creator, Ruler, Mighty One; The only Good, All-wise,-- To him, the great eternal G.o.d, Our fervent prayers arise.

Giver of life, we call on him, On his high throne above, Our Rock of refuge still to be, Of safety and of love;

Our trusty s.h.i.+eld, our sure defence, Our leader, still to be: We call upon our pitying G.o.d, Who makes the blind to see.

We supplicate the Holy Lamb Whose blood for us was shed, Whose feet were pierced for guilty man, Whose hands for us have bled;

Even our G.o.d who gave us life, From heaven, his throne above, The great Creator of the world, Father, and G.o.d of love."

When any person is sick, the priests and devout people consult their favorite spirits. At Goumbi, in Equatorial Africa, this ceremony is quite frequent. Once upon a time the king fell sick. Quengueza was the name of the afflicted monarch. Ilogo was a favorite spirit who inhabited the moon. The time to invoke the favor of this spirit is during the full moon. The moon, in the language of Equatorial Africa, is Ogouayli. Well, the people gathered in front of the king's house, and began the ceremony, which consisted chiefly in singing the following song:--

"_Ilogo, we ask thee!

Tell who has bewitched the king!

Ilogo, we ask thee, What shall we do to cure the king?

The forests are thine, Ilogo!

The rivers are thine, Ilogo!

The moon is thine!

O moon! O moon! O moon!

Thou art the house of Ilogo!

Shall the king die? Ilogo!

O Ilogo! O moon! O moon!_"[97]

In African caravans or processions, there is a man chosen to go in front and sing, brandis.h.i.+ng a stick somewhat after the manner of our band-masters. The song is rather an indifferent howl, with little or no relevancy. It is a position much sought after, and affords abundant opportunity for the display of the voice. Such a person feels the dignity of the position. The following is a sample:--

"_Shove him on!

But is he a good man?

No, I think he's a stingy fellow; Shove him on!