So the Frenchman stayed, and his men were afraid to leave the land he’d found,
Yet they hated their leader bold and brave, and determined to have him downed.
And they hatched a plot, the bloodthirsty lot, to shoot the bold and good,
Alas! ’twas sad that men were so bad, for they killed him where he stood.
And the Mississippi gurgled on; it romped, it waved, it ran,
It pushed by silvery beaches, and it curled by the homes of man,
While the mocker sat on the whispery branch, it sang and caroled away:
“La Salle! La Salle! O brave La Salle!
Too bad! Too bad! Good day!”