Fathers with eyes of ancient ire,
Old eagles shorn of flight,
Forget the breed of my blue-eyed sire
While I sit this hour by the council fire,
All red in the fire's red light.

Chant me the day of the war-steed's prance
And the signal fires on the buttes,
Of the Cheyenne scalps on the lifted lance,
Of the women raped from the Pawnee dance
And the wild death trail of the Utes.

Sing me the song of the buffalo run
To the edge of the canyon snare,
With the roaring plunge when the meat was won
And the flash of knives in the low red sun
And the good blood smell in the air.

Chant me the might of the Manitou—
But the old song drags and dies.
Old things have drifted the sunset through
Till the very God of the land comes new
From the rim where the young stars rise!

Fathers, red men, the red flame falls,
And over the dim dawn lands
My white soul hunts me again and calls
To the lanes of law and the shadow of walls
And a woman with soft white hands.