O I would further fly, my child, to make thee safer yet
From the unsparing White Man’s dread hand all murder wet,
Yet bear thee on as I have borne so stealthily and fleet,
But darkness shuts the forest and thorns are in my feet.
O moan not—I would give this braid that once bound Hibbi’s brow,
But for a single palmful of water for thee now!
Ah! spring not to his name, no more to glad us may he come!—
Afar his ashes smoulder beneath the blasted gum,
All charred and blasted by the fire the White Man kindled there,
To burn our murder’d kindred and scorch us to despair.
O moan not—I would give this braid that once bound Hibbi’s brow,
But for a single palmful of water for thee now!
And but for thee I would their fire had eaten me as fast:
Hark, do I hear his death-cry yet lengthening up the blast?
But no, when his bound hands had signed the way that we should fly,
Thrown on the pyre fresh bleeding I saw thy father die.
O moan not—I would give this braid, his first fond gift to me,
But for a single palmful of water now for thee!
No more shall his loud tomahawk be plied for our relief,
The streams have lost for ever the shadow of a Chief,
The fading track of his fleet foot may guide not as before,
And the echo of the mountains shall answer him no more!
O moan not—I would give this braid, thy father’s gift to me,
But for a single palmful of water now for thee!
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