"Better sit and sob in our ears, silly Yoomy that thou art!--no! no!
none of your sentiment now; my soul is martially inclined; I want
clarion peals, not lute warblings. So throw out your chest, Yoomy:
lift high your voice; and blow me the old battle-blast.--Begin, sir
minstrel."

And warning all, that he himself had not composed the odious chant,
Yoomy thus:--

Our clubs! our clubs!
The thousand clubs of Narvi!
Of the living trunk of the Palm-tree made;
Skull breakers! Brain spatterers!
Wielded right, and wielded left;
Life quenchers! Death dealers!
Causing live bodies to run headless!

Our bows! our bows!
The thousand bows of Narvi!
Ribs of Tara, god of War!
Fashioned from the light Tola their arrows;
Swift messengers! Heart piercers!
Barbed with sharp pearl shells;
Winged with white tail-plumes;
To wild death-chants, strung with the hair of wild maidens!

Our spears! our spears!
The thousand spears of Narvi!
Of the thunder-riven Moo-tree made