The ghostly shapes go riding past; scout, voyageur, and priest,
Chief, warrior, and squaw, who gathered at the trader’s feast.
No more their laughter echoes loud, no more their voices rise and fall,
By bed of stream, ’neath aspen’s bough, where clumsy Indian children sprawl.
The chatter of the dance is hushed; the yells of warrior bands are gone,
As—gathering for the dance of death—they held high revelry ’till dawn.
We gaze upon the written page, we marvel that such tales are truth,
Of fighting fierce, of wrangling rude, of scalp-dance and the cries of youth.
Then thankfully we tread the paths, which voyageur and trapper bold
Were wont to tread in olden times, when passions fierce were uncontrolled.