Indian Hunter.
Oh, why does the white man follow my path, like the hound on the tiger’s track?
Does the flush of my dark cheek waken his wrath? does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breeze
Bear riches for him alone—
And the sons of the wood, never plunge in the flood,
Which the white man calls his own.
Yha, yha!
Then why should he come to the streams where none but the red skin dare to swim?
Why, why should he wrong the hunter? one who never did harm to him!
Yha, yha, yha!
The Father above thought fit to give to the white man corn and wine—
There are golden fields where he may live, but the forest shades are mine.
The eagle hath its place of rest, the wild horse where to dwell,
And the spirit that gave the bird its nest, made me a home as well.
Yha, yha!
Then back! go back! from the red man’s track, for the red man’s eyes are dim,
To find that the white man wrongs the one who never did harm to him.
Yha, yha, yha!