For the "pesky," painted Sioux, in the fall of 'sixty-two,
Came a-whooping on their ponies o'er the plain,
And they killed my pigs and cattle, and I tell you it looked "blue,"
When they danced around my blazing stacks of grain.
And the settlers mostly fled, but I didn't have a chance,
So I caught my hunting-rifle long and true,
And Mollie poured the powder while I made the devils dance,
To a tune that made 'em jump and tumble, too.
And they fired upon the cabin; 'twas as good as any fort,
But the "beauties" wouldn't give us any rest;
For they skulked and blazed away, and I didn't call it sport,
For I had to do my very "level best."
Now they don't call me a coward, but my Mollie she's a "brick;"
For she chucked the children down the cellar-way,
And she never flinched a hair tho' the bullets pattered thick,
And we held the "painted beauties" well at bay.
But once when I was aiming, a bullet grazed my head,
And it cut the scalp and made the air look blue;
Then Mollie straightened up like a soldier and she said:
"Never mind it, John, the Lord will help us through."
And you bet it raised my "grit," and I never flinched a bit,
And my nerves they got as strong as steel or brass;
And when I fired again I was sure that I had hit,
For I saw the skulking devil "claw the grass."
Well, the fight was long and hot, and I got a charge of shot
In the shoulder, but it never broke a bone;
And I never stopped to think whether I was hit or not
Till we found our ammunition almost gone.
But the "Rangers" came at last—just as we were out of lead,—
And I thanked the Lord, and Mollie thanked Him, too;
Then she put her arms around my neck and sobbed and cried and said:
"Bless the Lord!—I knew that He would help us through."
And yonder on the hooks hangs that same old trusty gun,
And above it—I am sorry they're so few—
Hang the black and braided trophies[[BY]] yet that I and Mollie won
In that same old bloody battle with the Sioux.
Fifteen years have rolled away since I laid my knapsack down,
And my prairie claim is now one field of grain;
And yonder down the lake loom the steeples of a town,
And my flocks are feeding out upon the plain.