THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.
They tell me, the men with a white-white face Belong to a purer, nobler race; But why, if they do, and it may be so, Do their tongues cry, “yes”—and their actions, “no?”
They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue, And it may be so, but the sky is blue; And the first of men—as our old men say, Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.
But throughout my life, I’ve heard it said, There’s nothing surpasses a tint of red; Oh, the white man’s cheeks look pale and sad, Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.
Then let them talk of their race divine, Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine; Give me a lodge, like my fathers had, And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.