Farewell to the spot where the pine-trees are sighing
O’er the flowery turf where our fathers are lying!
Farewell to the forests our young hunters love,
We shall soon chase the deer with our fathers above!
“‘We must go! and no more shall our council-fires glance
On the senate of chiefs or the warriors’ dance,
No more in its light shall youth’s eagle eye gleam,
Or the glazed eye of age become young in its beam.
Wail! wail! for our nation; its glory is o’er,
These hills with our war-songs shall echo no more,