Jarri sat with legs out

Thudding a hollow log with waddy

To make rhythm, he raised voice

To the yelling chant of the good song-men

Nona laughed with them, proud of Jarri,

Happy to share all eyes with Jarri.

Only old Yundi scowled.

And this the love song Jarri sang them:

I got belly-bruise from a club,

But I … got … Nona!

I got a sore where I sit down

But I … got … Nona.

Lost 'em firesticks, broke it woomera,

No more fishnet, no more tomahawk,

Got no gooreen, got no shield,

But I … got … Nona.

Gootchi he got bark canoe

But I … got … Nona.

Yarrawan sleep with hunting-dog

But I got Nona.

Kaa got pitcheri, Gwabba got drone-pipe,

Mullawa he got three boomerangs and two dingoes,

Walla got possum-rug keep him warm,

But I … got … Nona.

Gecko fella, he got two tails,

But I … got … Nona.

Frog he only got other frog

But I … got … Nona.

Gwoon got Weela with big hind part,

She got seven kids before he start,

Grey old Yundi got withered old Yan,

But I … got … Nona.

Note: Gooreen, a heavy throwing-stick used in hunting. Pitcheri (pituri), a native plant gathered and chewed by some tribes for its narcotic properties. The little gecko lizard seen on tree trunks easily sheds its tail when seized, and this often saves its life. The tail grows again but the new growth is often abnormal, and geckoes with double tails are to be seen.

Community Rain Song

At the old tribal squatting-place

Behind the camp gunyas

Tonight they were doing their Wyambi rain song

Under the bright stars.

This was nardoo-gathering season

But now little nardoo. Too long dry,

Grass all brown, birds not breeding,

Creeks not running, clouds gone long time.

This not a ritual secret and sacred,

This a camp game, a community playabout,

Even the women there, even the children.

But some of the old men, aloof and grave

Throughout all the laughter muttered strange words

Of magic-making as old as the race,

Handed down through countless generations,

Not understood now but faithfully repeated,

Lost rain-words from ancestral times.

Behind the bushes sounded

The weird whirring drone of the dread bullroarer,

While all waited motionless

As a great figure-group carved in stone

Dim in the firelight.

Now into view with dance steps advancing

A line of painted song-men

Chanting in unison:

'Rain come down!

Rain come down!'

And the squatting horde in chorus:

'Rain come down!'

'Creek run soon!

Creek run soon!

You great sky ones, fill dry waterhole,

Send rain down!'

'Creek run soon!

Send rain down!'

'Rainbird come,

That fellow know, he talk and tell us

Rain fall down!'

At once the whole Wyambi people

Took up the loud toneless scream

Of the giant cuckoo they called the rainbird

Whose coming always predicted rain.

A rhythm of 'Rain fall down!' mingled

With the harsh calls of the bird.

'Frog talk now,

Wake up now,