“I am Cucutle! The warriors have passed singing, The hymn of the battle has passed by me; It has passed, despising my childhood, And has stopped before the door of Bonkauku. I am the black warrior. My mother is Boseleso! I will rush as a lion, Like him that devours the virgins Near the forests of Fubasekoa. Mapatsa is with me-- Mapatsa, the son of Tele-- We set off singing the song of the Trot. Ramakoala, my uncle, exclaims: Cucutle, where shall we fight? We will fight before the fires of Makoso. We arrive.... The warriors of the enemy, ranged in a line, Fling their javelins together; They fatigue themselves in vain: The father of Moatla rushes into their midst, He wounds a man in the arm Before the eyes of his mother, Who sees him fall, Ah! Where is the head of the son of Sebegoane? It has rolled to the middle of his native town. I entered victorious into his dwelling, And purified myself in the midst of his sheepfold: My eye is still surrounded with the clay of the victory. The shield of Cucutle has been pierced; Those of his enemies are intact, For they are the shields of cowards. I am the white thunder Which growls after the rain! Ready to return to my children, I roar: I must have prey! I see the flocks and herds escaping Across the tufted grass of the plain; I take them from the shepherd with the white and yellow shield. Go up on the high rocks of Macate; See the white cow run into the midst of the herd. A Makose will no longer despise my club; The grass grows in his deserted pens, The wind sweeps the thatch From his ruined huts; The humming of the goats is the only noise that is heard In his town, once so gay. Tired, and dying with thirst, I went to the dwelling of Entele; His wife was churning delicious milk, The foam of which was white and frothy Like the saliva of a little child. I picked up a piece of a broken pot To drink out of the vessel, Which I soon left empty. The white cow that I conquered Has a black head; Her breast is high and open-- It was the nurse of the son of Matayane-- I will go and offer it to my prince. The name of my chief is Makao, And Makao is Makoo: I swear it by the striped ox Of Mamasike!” During Mr. Moffat’s missionary sojourn among the natives of Southern Africa it frequently fell to his lot to become pleader and arbitrator in most important public matters. Once, when among the Griquas, the neighbouring tribe of Mantatees threatened war; and the fiery Griquas were eager to accept the challenge. The English missionary, however, was against the whole business, and did not hesitate so to express himself at the war council.