A native karobberee

Come, I'll describe you a native Karobberee:—Fancy some hundred or two group'd around,All determin'd to kick up a bobbery,See in the middle that space of clear ground;See the young men prepare feathers—stuck in their hair,Breasts ornamented with figures in chalk;Look how their heads are all plaster'd with red,How they brandish their spears, and they strut in their walk.Fol-de-rol, lol-de-rol, fol-de-rol, lol-de-rol,Fol-de-rol, lol-de-rol, fol-de-rol, lay.

Thus, it may be said, they're a fine white and red,As they stand painted like so many celts;Look how their bodies all glisten and shine with oil,Their hammers all stuck in their fur-twisted belts;Look at those men about, keeping a sharp look outAfter their wives, for some have two or three;Each wife has a bag on, but no other rag onExcept a short cloak, reaching scarce to her knee.Fol-de-rol, &c.

Now they ply their heels, dancing in rounds and reels,Fierce as if going to fight for their dear lives,While the bye standers, more brave than highlanders,Beat time on their throwing-boards with their quartz knives.With their hegha and hegha, and hogha and hogha,They grunt out and snort out their horrible tune;Oh, how they dance it and round about prance it,And make the dust fly in the light of the moon.Fol-de-rol, &c.

There are old men and young men, and short men and tall men,And women and children, and hobble-de-hoys,While all the young lasses, as each dancer passes,Keep stealing a peep at their favourite boys;Then come sly glances, and little advances,For dark though their skin is, their eye-beams are bright;But lest you should tell us the ladies grow jealous,Their dance being done now, we'll wish them good night.Fol-de-rol, &c.