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In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of gold / The billows are ceaselessly combing, / Away in a village all tranquil and old / I came on a market where porkers were sold -- / A market for pigs in the gloaming.
And Maoris in plenty in picturesque rig / The lands of their forefathers roaming, / Were weighing their swine, whether little or big, / For purchasers paid by the weight of the pig / The weight of the pig in the gloaming.
And one mighty chieftain, I grieve to relate, / The while that his porker was foaming / And squealing like fifty -- that Maori sedate, / He leant on the pig just to add to its weight / He leant on the pig in the gloaming.
Alas! For the buyer, an Irishman stout / O'Grady, I think, his cognomen -- / Perceived all his doings, and, giving a shout, / With the butt of his whip laid him carefully out / By the side of his pig in the gloaming.
A terrible scrimmage did straightway begin, / And I thought it was time to be homing, / For Maoris and Irish were fighting like sin / 'Midst war-cries of "Pakeha! " "Batherashin! " / As I fled from the spot in the gloaming.
The Bulletin, 22 November 1890