_Hear ye a tale from the deepest depths of the heart of Borneo,_
_Where the Moeroeng leaps in wild cascades,_
_And the endless green of the jungle fades,_
_And night shuts down on the fern-choked glades_
_Where the kampong hearth-fires glow._
Listen, Oh White Man, that ye hear
The words of a Dyak chief,
Till ye learn the weight of the Dyak hate
And the depth of the Dyak grief.
Once in the days of my strength and pride
I loved a kampong maid,
And very old was the tale I told
’Neath the lace of the jungle shade.
And very old was the tale I told,
Though born year by year;
Till I thought of the headless waist I bore--
And I drew the maiden near:
And I pledged her there by the tree-banked stream
Where the rippling shadows flee,
“None but the skull of a kampong chief
Shall hang at my belt for thee.”