But, see, there steps forth a warrior white,—’tis Champlain in casquet of steel,
A sword by his side, in his hand a long gun, he sights as the Iroquois wheel.
Crash! bang! and the bullet is speeding along, it reaches the breast of a chief,
One despairing wail and the lean body, frail, has gone to the Kingdom of Grief.
Ahah! what is this, for the Iroquois turn, they have met with their masters at-last,
The warriors fierce, who can slaughter and burn, now wince at the steel bullet’s blast.
The Montagnais are yelping and dancing with glee, their enemies fear them at length,
For many years past they have kept them in awe; now they wince at the arquebus’ strength.
A wild mêlée now, and the green balsam bough, sways o’er the carnage of hate,