FIJIAN LOVE-POEMS

In his article on Fijian poetry, referred to in the chapter on Coyness, Sir Arthur Gordon informs us that among the “sentimental” class of poems “there are not a few which are licentious, and many more which, though not open to that reproach, are coarse and indecent in their plain-spokenness.”  Others of the love-songs, he declares, have “a ring of true feeling very unlike what is usually found in similar Polynesian compositions, and which may be searched for in vain in Gill’s Songs of the Pacific.”  These songs, he adds, “more nearly resemble European love-songs than any with which I am acquainted among other semi-savage races;” and he finds in them “a ring of true passion as if of love arising not from mere animal instinct but intelligent association.”  I for my part cannot find in them even a hint at supersensual altruistic sentiment.  To give the reader a chance to judge for himself I cite the following: 

I

He.—­I seek my lady in the house when the breeze blows, I say to her, “Arrange the house, unfold the mats, bring the pillows, sit down and let us talk together.”

I say “Why do you provoke me?  Be sure men despise coquetry such as
     yours, though they disguise from you the scorn they feel.  Nay, be
     not angry; grant me to hold thy fairly tattooed hand.  I am
     distracted with love.  I would fain weep if I could move thee to
     tears.”

She.—­You are cruel, my love, and perverse.  To think thus much of an
     idle jest. 
The setting sun bids all repose.  Night is nigh.

II

I lay till dawn of day, peacefully asleep,
But when the sun rose, I rose too and ran without. 
I hastily gathered the sweetest flowers I could find, shaking them
     from the branches. 
I came near the dwelling of my love with my sweet scented burden. 
As I came near she saw me, and called playfully,
“What birds are you flying here so early?”
“I am a handsome youth and not a bird,” I replied,
“But like a bird I am mateless and forlorn.” 
She took a garland of flowers off her neck and gave it to me
I in return gave her my comb; I threw it to her and ah me! it strikes
     her face! 
“What rough bark of a tree are you made from?” she cries.  And so
     saying she turned and went away in anger.

III

In the mountain war of 1876 there was in the native force on the government side a handsome lad of the name of Naloko, much admired by the ladies.  One day, all the camp and the village of Nasauthoko were found singing this song, which someone had composed: 

     “The wind blows over the great mountain of Magondro,
     It blows among the rocks of Magondro. 
     The same wind plays in and raises the yellow locks of
          Naloko. 
     Thou lovest me, Naloko, and to thee I am devoted,