In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of gold <br />The billows are ceaselessly combing, <br />Away in a village all tranquil and old <br />I came on a market where porkers were sold -- <br />A market for pigs in the gloaming. <br />And Maoris in plenty in picturesque rig <br />The lands of their forefathers roaming, <br />Were weighing their swine, whether little or big, <br />For purchasers paid by the weight of the pig -- <br />The weight of the pig in the gloaming. <br /> <br />And one mighty chieftain, I grieve to relate, <br />The while that his porker was foaming <br />And squealing like fifty -- that Maori sedate, <br />He leant on the pig just to add to its weight -- <br />He leant on the pig in the gloaming. <br /> <br />Alas! for the buyer, an Irishman stout -- <br />O'Grady, I think, his cognomen -- <br />Perceived all his doings, and, giving a shout, <br />With the butt of his whip laid him carefully out <br />By the side of his pig in the gloaming. <br /> <br />A terrible scrimmage did straightway begin, <br />And I thought it was time to be homing, <br />For Maoris and Irish were fighting like sin <br />'Midst war-cries of "Pakeha!" "Batherashin!" <br />As I fled from the spot in the gloaming<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-maori-pig-market/
