Of an American Indian separated from his Tribes to the Chiefs of his Nation.
Though the broad ocean billow is flowing,
Between the green turfs which we tread ;
Though above me the summer is glowing.
While around you the winter is spread.
Yet my spirit's at home and with you, chiefs,
Where our fathers were lords of the plain ;
To the tribe, to the tribe, I'll be true, chiefs.
Though I ne'er hear its war-shout again.

Did the tribe of the Beaver surround us,
With the guile of Oneada's foes ?
Did I wake when the night was around us ?
Did I mark when in wrath they arose ?
If the pride of their warriors I slew, chiefs,
If their valiant were strew'd on the plain ;
To the tribe which I saved, I'll be true, chiefs,
Though I ne'er fight its battles again.

Bold words at the council-fire spoken,
Or breath'd in the wigwams of peace.
In the face of the foe were they broken ?
Can truth to be truth ever cease ?
Speak of me when the chase you renew, chiefs.
Breathe my name in your shout o'er the slain ;
To my tribe, to my tribe, I am true, chiefs,
Though I ne'er shall hunt with you again.