Not always do they perish by the sword
Who by the sword have lived. A harder fate,
A direr doom, an end more desolate
Befel the remnant of one warlike horde!
Ngatimamoe! From your Chiefs a word
Was wont to summon all the woes that wait
On warfare—plunder, slaughter, lust and hate;
You then were feared; your name is now abhorred!
Driven to the wild, inhospitable West,
The strong tribe dwindled; mother, sire and son
Fought Cold and Famine—foes that ne’er relented.
The last child starved at the last mother’s breast,
The last stern warrior laid him down alone,
Unsepulchred, unhonoured, unlamented!