Whiti Tuatahi He ahu whenua ra, Hau ana nga rongo! Nau na, e Apirana, I hora ki te motu; Hei hanga i te iwi Kia tupu totika, Mo te oranga roa nei. Whiti Tuarua Timata i te tope Nga otaota tupu; Me tahu ki te ahi, Kia auahi ake, Kia watea ana A Papa-tu-a-nuku; Hei whakairohanga ra. Whiti Tuatoru E mau ki te parau, Kia huri te whenua. Karawhiua ko te wepu Kia kamakama ake, Kei tai-ruhi ana. Nga hurihanga maha Pã mai te wheru nui. Whiti Tuawha Whakawhitiria ake He kiiwhi kei muri. Poro-titi-titi ana, Nga ngaru pukepuke! Peehia te haara, Miringia kia piri Kia papa-tai-rite mai. Whiti Tuarima Mo te karaihe; Me rui whanui, Kia kapi te Whenua. Kia tupu ake ana, Whangaia ki te kau Hei ara waiu mai. Whiti Tuaona Whaka-ara taiepa; Kumea nga waea, Kia u tepara; Kei puta ko te toa, Ka marara te maapu. Kimikimi noa ana, Ka raru menetia ra. Whiti Tuawhitu Tapahia ko te hei, Me whaka-haipu Kia tairanga rawa, Takahia kia u. Mo te wa hotoke, Mo te wa kore kai— Hei whataki noa mai. First Stanza Now ‘tis of the tilling of the land, That the story is borne on the winds! It was you, O Apirana, who spread it o'er the land; For the rebuilding of the race So that it might prosper, And live on for ever. Second Stanza It commences with the clearing Of the shrubs that grow Burn it with fire, Let the smoke billow upwards, Leaving quite bare The Earth-that-lies-beneath; Ready is she for her adorning. Third Stanza Take hold of the plough, Make the sod to turn. Ply now the whip To urge (the team) along, Lest they lag wearily. Many a turning there will be Bringing with it great weariness. Fourth Stanza Change over now And let the disc follow on. See the spilling and tumbling, Like unto the curling waves! Weigh down the harrows, That it may smooth it down And flatten it out. Fifth Stanza Now for the grass (seed); Sow it far and wide, Covering all the land. When it is growing, Feed it to the cattle And make the milk to flow. Sixth Stanza Put up the fences; Pull on the wires, Hammer the staples firmly; Lest the bull run free, And the mob stampede. You'll look for them in vain, And the manager will get the blame. Seventh Stanza Cut down the hay, And stack it well Right up there on high, And stamp on it firmly. ‘Tis for the winter time,— Oft a time of famine— With careful feeding it will last.