Maori lore, written and unwritten, is rich in beautiful and touching laments for the dead. This is an all but forgotten waiato tangi, composed and chanted by the chief Hone Mohi Tawhai (ex-M.H.R.), of Waima, Hokianga, on the death of his son, Graham (Kereama) Tawhai, in 1886. Graham was a promising young man. who was educated in Auckland and was studying law in Whitaker and Russell's office when he suddenly became ill, and was taken home only to die shortly after he reached his Waima birthplace. The following is a translation of the principal part of the elegiac chant: —

Alas! my son! In boyhood thou hast gone
Thy way, nor waited till the moon in fullness
Graced the sky. Thou didst not seek
Men's admiration, yet thou wert prized,
And precious as a greenstone jewel
To thine own people; for thou wert worthy
Of that renowned ancestral name Rahiri.

* * *

The tribe, in sorrow bowed,
Weep for thee in their distant homes.
The lightning flashes through the darkened sky,
And strikes the sacred height of Whakatere,
A sign of death. Thou wert too quickly snatched away
To rest among thy forefathers,
Who have slept so long in Okahu's red sands
Where all are now alike.
Rise up, O son, that we may stand together,
That by some magic power thy eager step
May pace our home again;
And let thy voice, which moved each heart, be lifted up,
That thousands may give ear.

* * *

Daughters of Kiri! Once ye dandled Graham
In your arms, as though he were a poi,
And bore him in the great canoe
To Rangitoto, there to gaze around
Upon the little hills of Tamaki,
The land and waters of thy ancestors.

* * *

Let the moaning sea around Taranga's isle
Hear our lament; lei the sound of grief be borne away
To Kokako and all the mainland heights.

* * *

Whakamautara stood forth to greet thee
At Kaikohe and take thce home to Hokianga,
To thy childhood's valley, there to rest for aye.
We took thee to our loving home,
Yet thou did'st, linger with us, O my son,
But one short night, and now thou sleepest,
O thou prized jewel of the tribe,
The last and quiet sleep.
Who is there now among us
To carry out thy mission, take up thy work of love!
Shall it be left to Wi, or to Hand,
Or perish in the sighing winds of death?