It was a sort of blank verse, and each line consisted of five syllables.

The song was short when it first began, but each day he picked up more information about us, and added to the poem until our praises became an ode of respectable length.

When distance from home compelled his return he expressed his regret at leaving us, and was, of course, paid for his useful and pleasant flatteries.

Another, though a less gifted son of song, belonged to the Batoka of our own party.

Every evening, while the others were cooking, talking, or sleeping, he rehearsed his songs, containing a history of everything he had seen in the land of the white men, and on the way back.