dead chieftain, they broke forth into loud wailing, thus
One stooped - a stockman from the nearer hills -
To loose his wallet-strings, from whence he took
A bag of tea, and laid it on her lap;
Then sobbing, ``God will help you, missus, yet,''
He sought his horse, with most bewildered eyes,
And, spurring swiftly, galloped down the glen.
Where black Orara nightly chafes his brink,
Midway between lamenting lines of oak