Oan:

Ay! they are pieces of the moon!

Uk:

What further madness is this?  How shall they be pieces of two things that are not the same?  Also it was not thus in the song.

Oan:

I will make me a new song.  We do change the shape of wood and stone, but a song is made out of nothing.  Ho! ho!  I can fashion things from nothing!  Also I say that the stars come down at morning and become the dew.

Uk:

Let us have no more of these stars.  It may be that a song is a good thing, if it be of what a man knoweth.  Thus, if thou singest of my club, or of the bear that I slew, of the stain on the Stone, or the cave and the warm leaves in the cave, it might be well.

Oan:

I will make thee a song of Ala!

Uk (furiously):

Thou shalt make me no such song!  Thou shalt make me a song of the deer-liver that thou hast eaten!  Did I not give to thee of the liver of the she-deer, because thou didst bring me crawfish?

Oan:

Truly I did eat of the liver of the she-deer; but to sing thereof is another matter.

Uk:

It was no labour for thee to sing of the stars.  See now our clubs and casting-stones, with which we slay flesh to eat; also the caves in which we dwell, and the Stone whereon we make sacrifice; wilt thou sing no song of those?

Oan:

It may be that I shall sing thee songs of them.  But now, as I strive here to sing of the doe’s liver, no words are born unto me:  I can but sing, “O liver!  O red liver!”

Uk:

That is a good song:  thou seest that the liver is red.  It is red as blood.

Oan:

But I love not the liver, save to eat of it.

Uk:

Yet the song of it is good.  When the moon is full we shall sing it about the Stone.  We shall beat upon our breasts and sing, “O liver!  O red liver!” And all the women in the caves shall be affrightened.

Oan:

I will not have that song of the liver!  It shall be Ok’s song; the tribe must say, “Ok hath made the song!”

Ok:

Ay!  I shall be a great singer; I shall sing of a wolf’s heart, and say,
“Behold, it is red!”

Uk:

Thou art a fool, and shalt sing only, “Hai, hai!” as thy father before thee.  But Oan shall make me a song of my club, for the women listen to his songs.

Oan:

I will make thee no songs, neither of thy club, nor thy cave, nor thy doe’s-liver.  Yea! though thou give me no more flesh, yet will I live alone in the forest, and eat the seed of grasses, and likewise rabbits, that are easily snared.  And I will sleep in a tree-top, and I will sing nightly: 

The bright day is gone. 
The night maketh me sad, sad, sad,
sad, sad, sad—­