He Waiata Mo Te Moe Punarua

The Song of the First Wife by MATAHIRA Prytz Johansen (The Maori and his Religion, Copenhagen, 1954) describes the Maori attitude towards love as a mate or weakening and characterizes its expression in waiata as foreful and passionate, as if love itself were an outrage against personal integrity. He views the Maori love-song as an expression of love unrequited or betrayed (pp. 229 and 252) but I don't think this is peculiar to the Maori. Amongst the Maori aristocracy, the loss of status involved in an unsuccessful love-affair could be restored possibly by a waiata such as this (Nga Moteatea, Nos. 9, 22, 35, 62, 62a and others) or by another love-affair, or by suicide (Maning, Old New Zealand, pp. 162, 206, 208). This song has been recorded in its original style and form by Te Hati. The recording is now in the Dominion Museum. The composer, Matahira, was senior wife of Te Kotiri. As a rangatira, Te Kotiri could afford to take another woman. He married the girl, Te Whioroa. This, then, was Matahira's complaint.

E roto i ahau e whanawhana noa ra; Te mokai puku nei nana rawa i tekateka, Roha noa i te hiwi ki Wharerewa ra ia. He haonga no roto ki tona tane ra ia— O nga raro ra e ko taua anake. He mea te ngakau ka puia me he ao. Ke maanu i ahau he rimu kai te awa. He atua te tane whakaako i te itinga, He turaki he wawae i a maua nei. He pito kaingakau naku ki a koe. Kei te rurenga mai ko ia tonu tena. Katahi nei te hore o te hanga punarua; Ko ana tanguru mai ki tona tokatoranga, Ko te whiti, ko te wara ka tae mai ki ahau Auaka, e Mare, a kohuraia mai, Nau te waka nei te whakahau ki te awa. Ka hiko taku manako ki te hori ki waho ra, Kia whakatomokia te hahanga kikino nei. Ko au ka uhupoho ki oku moenga, E kimia mai nei e te tane atua, Ngaru ana ra te taringa whakaronga, e! Within me, thrusting endlessly Against the belly that betrayed me— Swollen now like Wharewera Hill— There's a little thing that would see If you are his father still. Let the wind blow, let the river flow, Am I cloud or water-weed, to go where they go? You were a God and I but a child, Now having used me, you cast me aside, This little thing I gave, you deride, Am I worthless, thus to be denied? O the misery of the two-wived beast, For me, a famine, for him, a feast; And I, the host, was least While he, the guest, complained the most. But when you turned from me I burned the more fiercely— O Mare, do not tease me— This is your canoe, you set it on the sea; I long to go to you, and yet There are better men who seek my bed. I will be more careful who comes in your stead, Ears flap, but nothing will be said.