It is a wild dance altogether.  The music is lively, and evoked from the sonorous sound of four drums, which are arranged before the bodies of four men, who stand in the centre of the weird circle.  Bombay, as ever comical, never so much at home as when in the dance of the Mrima, has my water-bucket on his head; Chowpereh—­ the sturdy, the nimble, sure-footed Chowpereh—­has an axe in his hand, and wears a goatskin on his head; Baraka has my bearskin, and handles a spear; Mabruki, the “Bull-headed,” has entered into the spirit of the thing, and steps up and down like a solemn elephant; Ulimengo has a gun, and is a fierce Drawcansir, and you would imagine he was about to do battle to a hundred thousand, so ferocious is he in appearance; Khamisi and Kamna are before the drummers, back to back, kicking up ambitiously at the stars; Asmani,—­the embodiment of giant strength,—­a towering Titan,—­ has also a gun, with which he is dealing blows in the air, as if he were Thor, slaying myriads with his hammer.  The scruples and passions of us all are in abeyance; we are contending demons under the heavenly light of the stars, enacting only the part of a weird drama, quickened into action and movement by the appalling energy and thunder of the drums.

The warlike music is ended, and another is started.  The choragus has fallen on his knees, and dips his head two or three times in an excavation in the ground, and a choir, also on their knees, repeat in dolorous tones the last words of a slow and solemn refrain.  The words are literally translated:—­

Choragus.  Oh-oh-oh! the white man is going home!

Choir.  Oh-oh-oh! going home! 
                     Going home, oh-oh-oh!

Choragus.  To the happy island on the sea,
           Where the beads are plenty, oh-oh-oh!

Choir.  Oh-oh-oh! where the beads are plenty,
                     Oh-oh-oh!

Choragus.  While Singiri has kept us, oh, very long
           From our homes very long, oh-oh-oh.!

Choir From our homes, oh-oh-oh! 
                      Oh-oh-oh!

Choragus.  And we have had no food for very long—­
           We are half-starved, oh, for so long! 
                      Bana Singiri!

Choir.  For so very long, oh-oh-oh! 
                       Bana Singiri-Singiri! 
                            Singiri! oh, Singiri

Choragus.  Mirambo has gone to war
           To fight against the Arabs;
           The Arabs and Wangwana
           Have gone to fight Mirambo!

Choir Oh-oh-oh! to fight Mirambo!

Oh, Mirambo!  Mirambo
Oh, to fight Mirambo!

Choragus.  But the white man will make us glad,
           He is going home!  For he is going home,
           And he will make us glad!  Sh-sh-sh!

Choir.      The white man will make us glad!   Sh-sh-sh
Sh-----sh-h-h-----sh-h-h-h-h-h! 
Um-m—­mu—–­um-m-m——­sh!

This is the singular farewell which I received from the Wanyamwezi of Singiri, and for its remarkable epic beauty(?), rhythmic excellence(?), and impassioned force(?), I have immortalised it in the pages of this book, as one of the most wonderful productions of the chorus-loving children of Unyamwezi.