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.
......
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.
......