Many of the Kaffir’s musical effects would seem most ludicrous to us. Sudden contrasts, have, to him, a special attraction, and it is not unusual to hear him give the highest squeaks of falsetto, and the deepest bass grunts, alternately. Loudness in singing is his great end and aim, and to effect sudden _sforzando_ effects, he has a peculiar method, i. e.—the choruses of the songs are usually meaningless, being often a mere reiteration of the words e-e-e-_yu_ (which may be called the African “fol de roi de ray”), and when, after shouting with full lungs on the _e-e-e_, the singer desires more power on the _yu_, he effects it by giving himself a sound thump in the ribs with his elbows; this produces a marked emphasis on the syllable, and the result, when two or three hundred singers do this simultaneously is startling. The Kaffir, contrary to our practise, _sits down_, when he sings. One of their favorite songs, is used at husking festivals. “The dry heads of maize are thrown in a heap upon the hard and polished floor of the hut, and a number of Kaffirs sit in a circle round the heap, each being furnished with the ever useful _knobkerry_ (a stick or club, very like a _shillelagh_, but with a knob at one end). One of them strikes up a song, and the others join in full chorus beating time with their clubs, upon the heads of the maize. This is a very exciting amusement for the performers, who shout the noisy chorus at the highest pitch of their lungs, and beat time by striking their knobkerries upon the grain. With every blow of the heavy club the maize grains are struck from their husks, and fly about the hut in all directions, threatening injury, if not absolute destruction to the eyes of all who are present in the hut. Yet the threshers seem to enjoy an immunity which seems to be restricted to themselves and blacksmiths; and while a stranger is anxiously shading his eyes from the shower of hard maize grains, the threshers themselves do not give a thought to the safety of their eyes, but sing at the top of their voices, pound away at the corn cobs, and make the grains fly in all directions, as if the chorus of the song were the chief object in life, and the preservation of their eyesight were unworthy of a thought.”[210] The war-songs of the Kaffirs are fiery and exciting, though in a less degree than those of New Zealand. Their poetry is full of metaphor, and alliterative enough to be admitted into the opera of the future. The participants sit in a circle, sometimes three or four deep, with their knees well drawn up, and sing, beating rhythmic accompaniment upon the ground, twirling their _assagais_ (javelins), and occasionally enlivening the proceedings with an ear-piercing whistle, or deafening shout. We give an English version (Mr. Shooter’s) of two of these, merely premising that much of the native beauty is said to be lost in the transposition to a foreign tongue.