William Henry Graham had a deep respect for the aboriginal people of Victoria, and a keen interest in their languages, legends, and history.
Part one of this anthology included the short poem The Last Boomerang. This poem reflects the sadness and distress that William felt for the destruction of the aboriginal people and their country by the white settlers.
This second part of the anthology presents three authentic aboriginal stories.
Among the Kurnai aboriginal tribe of Gippsland, Victoria, a man accused of killing another by witchcraft was sentenced to defend himself against an avenging party called the Ningi Nungit. He was armed only with a shield.
The following episode took place on the Tambo River, where Bunbra the accused man faced the avenging party till wounded by a kunnin or throwing stick, whereupon the women rushed in and stopped the fight.
Notes:
1 "worthless orphan", a translation of a Kurnai term of reproach
2 "barn" a Kurnai word for evil magic.
3 "'Nay', cries Bunbra" According to the story, these are the words used by Bunbra.
4 "Bra-jerak", tribes which lived near Omeo.
THE NINGI NUNGIT
Kurnai tribesmen sink in slumber,
And their fires with flickering glow
Through the dim and darkling forest
Weird and changing shadows throw.
Bruthen from his sleep upstarting
Looks about with glance of fear
'Tis no foeman, 'tis a comrade
Bunbra standing waiting near.
"Brother, give me fire", says Bunbra
"Far I've wandered, down would lie,
Feel too tired to twirl the fire-drill,
Fain would close each weary eye."
Bruthen smilingly consenting,
Settling down again to rest,
Draws his huge and furry mantle
Tightly over back and breast.
Days have flown, and Bruthen sickens
Murmuring low, his tale he tells,
"Bunbra came by night and caught me
In my sleep by magic spells."
Worse he grows, and still accusing,
Dies in weakness and in pain.
Lifeless lies the hand which never
Spear or shield shall grasp again.
In his wurley wife and kinsfolk
Weeping lie in anguish sore,
Wild and weird they sound the death-wail,
"Bruthen shall arise no more."
In the bushland by the Tambo
Shouts resound and clash of arms,
Do the hostile clans in battle
Wake the woods with war's alarms?
Winter morning sunshine touching
Distant Bogong's snowy crown
Sheds o'er bush and dale and mountain
Peacefully its radiance down.
Shining meadows by the Tambo,
Wattles gild with golden sheen,
Yet, amid this dreamland beauty
Man enacts a gruesome scene.
Kroatun and Tatun tribesfolk
Fill the background with their throng,
Forward stand in wide half-circle
Naked warriors lithe and strong.
In their hands they grasp their weapons
While against them in the field,
Bunbra, weaponless and lonely,
Holds his carven polished shield.
In this doom-ring of the Kurnai
Murderers must stand alone,
Only death or lengthy ordeal
May for human life atone.
Grim and threatening stand th' avengers,
Bruthen's closest kin are they,
Called by Kurnai Ningi Nungit,
Keen the guilty one to slay.
And, behind the arm~ed warriors,
Sit their women chanting low,
Drumming on their folded mantles
With a measure weird and slow.
This they sing in Kurnai speech-wise
Words of hate with every breath,
"Ruin take thee worthless orphan 1
Vengeance sink they soul in death".
Now the headman speaks to Bunbra,
Brandishing his spear the while,
"Thou hast done to death our kinsman,
By thy 'barn' 2 thy Witchcraft guile".
"Nay", cries Bunbra in defiance
"Ningi Nungit, thou hast lied,
That poor fellow, well I loved him
Not by work of mine he died". 3
At a signal from the headman,
Spears like lightning streaks are hurled
Like a flock of flying parrots
Battle boomerangs are whirled.
Bunbra's eye and hand are ready,
In suspense his lips are sealed
Many a crashing wooden weapon
Breaks against his glittering shield.
Skilled are they to wield their weapons
Deft to use his shield is he,
Can he stand by strength and boldness,
Then his chief may set him free.
But at length his eye grows weary
And his shield is sinking low,
While th' avengers, still unwearied,
Stoop, and rise, and aim, and throw.
Look to where his wife is standing
With his people at the rear,
See! Her eyes are fixed and staring,
Wide with mingled hope and fear.
"Woe!" she cries, "My man will perish",
Guiltless too of crime is he,
Long he lived with me and loved me,
Ever true and kind to me".
"Years ago, from Mitta-Mitta,
Spear and sword for blood athirst
Came the Bra-jerak 4 to Dargo
On our camp by night they burst."
"Warriors seized me, dragged me with them
but my husband blow on blow,
Showered on them till they scattered
Northward to their hills of snow."
"I must save him my defender
Husband mine", she cries, "I come!"
Swift her father's shield she snatches
While he stares surprised and dumb.
Forward springs she through the flying,
Hissing weapons' deadly hail,
Hoping she may save her husband,
If her feeble strength avail.
So the twain, together standing,
Stop the missiles as they fly
While the tribesmen chant a war song,
And the Tambo rushes by.
But at last a whizzing kunnin
Gashes Bunbra, strikes the wife,
Blood is flowing! Will th' avengers
Thus appeas~ed end the strife?
Yea! For lo! The women screaming
Forward rush and take their stand,
'Twixt the victims and the warriors,
Lo! Each thrower stays his hand.
Forth there steps an ancient chieftain
Snowy-white his beard and hair
Now he speaks while all folk listen,
"Bravely Bunbra fought, and fair",
"See the women stand between them
Let the battle ordeal cease
Let him take his faithful woman
Homeward to the camp in peace".
Now Tatungolong avengers
Peacefully round Bunbra throng
Northward, bound for Buchan-munji
March the Kroatungolong.
(a Woe-woorong Death Song.)
This song of Wenberi, bard of the Yarra tribe of Victorian aborigines (Wurunjerri-balook or Woe-woorong tribe - woe-woorong being the name of their language, from "Woe" - no, and "woorong" - lip, or language) was learnt by Doctor Torrance from Barak one of their headmen, who died at Corranderik near Healesville in 1900.
Wenberi sang it to mourn for his brother, killed as he believed, by evil magic.
The song ran thus in Woe-woorong speech:-
Nge tuigar ngala ngibenba,
Diudirunding Dullur wiluit,
Wa-wundunung Bunjil mamangata Yennin,
Ba thulurm-eek, ba wur galook eek.
In English, literally:-
We go all the bones to-all
Shining white over the Dullur land,
The rushing sound, Bunjil father ours,
Singing in breast mine, here in heart mine.
The song was sung about 1830 before Melbourne was founded.
Notes:
1 "Wurdi-youang", You-yang Mountains meaning "big hills".
2 "Geelong", aboriginal name of Corio Bay.
3 "Willam", Woe-woorong for mia-mia.
4 "Bunjil", "Eagle hawk father" - God of Yarra blacks. "Bunjil-Maman".
5 "Witya-woorong", Geelong tribe. "No lip" ie, "witya" - no; "woorong" - lip or speech.
6 "Barngeet", War boomerang.
7 "Tharang-galk-beek", Gum-tree-land.
WENBERI'S LAMENT
Wurdi-youang's stony steep, 1
Stands to northward, grim and high,
And Geelong's wide waters sleep, 2
Southward 'neath the moonlit sky.
Stilly midnight covers all,
Stirreth neither beast nor bird,
Sounds not e'en the mopoke's call,
Hark! What sad soft chant is heard?
Hardly seen in shadows dark,
By yon gnarled and twisted trees,
Mark that willam built of bark, 3
Shelter from the chilling breeze.
See that fire's red sullen glare,
There a wanderer sits alone,
Screened from biting frosty air,
By the cloak about him thrown.
Close beside him on his shield,
Spear and boomerang repose,
Weapons tried on many a field,
Warring with his tribal foes,
Not for long shall be their rest,
Soon to work of vengeance lent,
Hurled with strength of foeman's breast,
They will fly on slaughter bent.
Who is he, why sits he there
In the bushland all alone?
Why that sad forsaken air,
Why that chant of mournful tone?
Wenberi men call his name,
Famous for his gift of song,
Which from heav'n upon him came,
Bunjil's gift to mortal tongue. 4
To these Dullur plains he passed,
From his home by Yarra's stream,
Where by hills and woodlands vast,
Crystal bright its waters gleam.
Wandering from his native race,
Wurunjerri's ancient clan,
To the west he set his face,
And his weary quest began.
Seeking vengeance for the dead,
Still he kept his onward way,
For, by sickness strange and dread,
Was his brother snatched away.
Sickness wrought by sorcerer's might,
Well the way to kill they know,
Who can wield the secret rite,
'Gainst the unsuspecting foe.
Thus the bard by passion stirred,
Poured his music on the air,
And those solemn woods that heard,
In his sorrow seemed to share.
In his song he sought relief,
For his overburdened soul,
Fierce revenge and bitter grief,
Raged and wept throughout the whole.
'Neath the moon's pale ghostly light,
Scattered on these Dullur plains,
Bleaching bones all glistening white,
Are his body's sad remains.
Bunjil-Maman, thou in heaven,
Rushing power that fill'st my breast,
By thine inspiration given,
Is my song of grief expressed.
"Brother dear I mourn for thee,
Of thy fellowship bereft,
Of they stalwart form I see,
Only these poor relics left.
Evil witchcraft's subtle power,
Draws the life-sap from the tree,
Blights and withers up the flower,
Brother such its work in thee."
Had he fall'n by sword or spear,
Worthy death for one so brave,
Pride had mingled in the tear,
Shed above a warrior's grave.
Now the bitterest drops must flow,
Since he died through shameful wrong,
Bunjil, teach me words of woe,
Fitting for my woeful song.
Devil-magic's awful might,
Lent itself to foemen's aid,
Spells that work in blackest night,
On my brother's life were laid.
Witya-woorong sorcerers came. 5
Pointing with the deadly bone,
On their tribe I lay the blame,
Life for life must now atone.
Who may fill my brother's stead?
Well his clan the loss may mourn!
Weep with clay on face and head,
Let your flesh with knives be torn!
Who like him could hold the shield?
Who so far the barngeet throw? 6
Yet our strength to death must yield,
Strongest ones to dust must go.
On the Yarra side by side,
Ne'er again our twin canoes,
Gently as the swans shall glide,
Evermore that bliss I lose.
Once to hunting fields we went,
Where our boomerangs were thrown,
Like twin meteors skyward sent,
Now, I seek the hunt alone.
Yet if truth our seers have told,
They have spoken with the dead,
And in visions they behold,
Ghosts of those from earth long sped.
Though my brother lost may seem,
Still his spirit may be here,
Will he come in nightly dream,
Waking shall I find him near?
Will he tell me of his flight,
Up the Karalk's Sunbeam-Road,
Through the sunset regions bright,
Into Bunjil's fair abode,
Where within the Gum-tree-land,
Tharang-galk-beek, heav'n of ease, 7
The undying spirit-band,
Know no wound nor feel disease.
Far within the glowing west,
Ngamat's sunset gully lies,
Where men's souls found shady rest,
Underneath the shining skies.
They in Ngamat loath to stay,
Since of heaven they were told,
Up to lands of endless day,
Built the Sunbeam-path of gold.
Will he teach me song and charm,
Learnt from spirits dwelling there?
Will he come to warn of harm,
Bidding me in dreams beware?
As in life he was my stay,
Ever standing by my side,
Still along my earthly way,
Shall he be my spirit-guide.
Will he give me words of cheer,
Bidding me no longer mourn?
Will he urge my laggard spear,
To the vengeance I have sworn?
Or with softer, milder prayer,
Will he check my glowing hate,
Since both friend and foe must share,
Death to all the common fate?
All must perish all must die;
And our strength must be full soon,
As these bleaching bones that lie,
Shimmering 'neath the pallid moon.
Sad forebodings, dark and drear,
On my mind so thickly throng.
Spirit-voices mingle here,
Dread foretellings in my song.
Hear we rumours south and north,
Of the race so strange so pale,
From the seas and hills come forth,
Spreading over mount and vale,
Men who hurl the smoke and fire,
Sending death through warrior's shield,
How may we escape their ire?
We to witchcraft's strength must yield.
Of our tribes the remnant left,
Whom the victor race will spurn,
Of their lands and rights bereft,
Towards the setting sun shall turn.
Dying, they will see the foe,
Fell and burn their forests wide,
Untold creatures laying low,
Which their needs of life provide.
THE LEGEND OF THE WI-WON-DER'-ER
1 The Kurnai tribe of Gippsland said that man-shaped beings, whom they called Wi-won-der'-er had bodies made of stone. They dwelt on the Narn mountain, near Western Port. Natives had been killed by them, but even when they tried to fight the Wi-won-der'-er, no spear could pierce their stone bodies.
THE LEGEND OF THE WI-WON-DER'-ER
Where the Gippsland mountain forests
Clothe the Promontory's shore,
As we wandered, came a legend
To my mind from native lore.
Yonder stood the haunted mountain,
Narn, by dark skinned tribesmen feared,
Where, they said, the stony bodied
Wi-won-der'-er once appeared.
Shaped like men these spirit beings
Seemed, with bodies stout as stone.
Spear nor boomerang could pierce them,
Though with force and deftly thrown.
On my mind the legend pressing
Bore me back through many years;
And to me the vision opened;
Voices strange assailed my ears.
Still there is the self same mountain,
And the creek beside our way,
Yet I hear soft words of Spanish!
And these strangers, who are they?
Swarthy featured, strangely weaponed,
Clad in garb of long ago,
Plodding on in lengthy jack boots,
Weary seem their steps and slow.
Armed with sword and pike, like actors
On a Shakespeare stage they seem;
Steel cuirasses case their bodies;
On their heads steel morions gleam.
See! They halt and grasp their weapons,
All alert as fearing harm,
While their leader as to calm them
Lifts his steel-defended arm.
To the end I saw the vision,
Learned the weird and untold tale;
And my comrades wondered at me,
As I stood aghast and pale.
But it finished, and it left me,
And I told them full and true
All the tale of Wi-won-der'-er
As I tell it now to you.
Sixteen hundred years and fifity
Since the Saviour's birth had passed,
When across the sea of Tasman,
Driven by the ruthless blast,
There was swept a hapless galleon,
With her helpless crew forlorn,
With her masts and spars besplintered,
And her sails all loose and torn.
Wave and tempest beat and tossed her,
Onward with resistless force.
Bound from Chile to the Indies,
She had wandered from her course.
Southward lay the unknown region
Lately found, Van Diemen's Land;
And to northward stretched before them
Vast New Holland's rocky strand.
Seen through mist and lashing seaspray,
Rose the Promontory high.
Floating in the clouds that drifted,
Bush-clad mountains clove the sky.
On the rocks that caught and tore her
Helpless, all the galleon drave.
In their longboatrs, through the breakers,
Six alone their lives could save.
See! All aimlessly they wander
From the fateful, hopeless shore,
Yet their hearts have cheered a little;
Shines the sun; the storm is o'er.
They have left their useless muskets,
For their powder sunken lies.
Corselet, steel-cap, pike and sabre
They have brought lest need arise.
By a creekside through the bushland
With their pikes as walking staves,
Through the scrub they force their passage
Golden wattle blossom waves
From the trees that brush their helmets
As they pass with dazzled eyes,
And the giant ferns and gumtrees
Wake their interest, and surprise.
But at night the mopoke's murmur
Fills their hearts with ghostly fear.
Fires they light not, low their speech is,
Lest some foe should see and hear.
Though they spare their scant provisions,
Yet their food is getting low,
And they feel their frames from wandering
Wearier and weaker grow.
Oft the ringing of their armour
Starts strange beasts that spring and bound;
And ill-omened birds above them
Laught with weird and devilish sound.
Superstitious horror grips them,
Breaking their Castilian pride,
And they pray, "Blest Mary help us,
Save us Christ, for us who died."
Startled now they stare before them;
Dark-skinned native warriors throng,
Waving spears and calling to them
In an uncouth savage tongue.
Whether peace or war is offered,
How may Spanish seamen know?
So with lifted hand their leader
Bids them all restraint to show.
But the dark folk see his gesture,
And his aim misunderstand.
Shields they raise, and hurl their weapons
Forth with strong and ready hand.
Harmless glance from helmet, breastplate,
Boomerang and splintered spear,
While the Spaniards draw their sabres,
Or their trusty pikes they rear.
Yet 'tis needless, for the natives
Scarcely can believe their gaze,
Watch the mail turn aback their weapons,
And are stiffened with amaze.
Then as suddenly recovering,
From the scene they turn and fly,
While the seamen ford the streamlet,
Up the mountain climbing high.
Swallowed by the pathless jungle,
Safe 'tis true from human foe;
Yet all lost, their lot is hopeless;
Death is coming, sure and slow.
Yet the dread of Wi-won-der'-er
To the natives long was known;
For their weapons all were useless
'Gainst those bodies built of stone 1 .