Yet at the foot of red Presque Isle
Brave Me-sa-sa was warring still;
He stood upon a large rough stone,
Still dealing random blows alone;
But bleeding fast–glazed were his eyes,
And feeble grew his battle-cries;
Too frail his arm, too dim his sight,
To wield or aim his axe aright;
As still more frail and faint he grew,
His body on the rock he threw.
As coursed his blood along the ground,
In feeble, low, and hollow sound,
Mingled with frantic peals and strong,
The dying chief poured out his song.