And we skim the broad waters, and trip through the woods.
With ships not of oak wood, nor pitchy, nor strong,
We sail along rivers, and sail with a song;
We care not for taxes—our laws are but few;
The dart is our sickle, our ship the canoe.
If enemies press us, and evil fear stray,
We seize on our war-clubs, and drive them away,
And when there is nothing to fear or withstand,
We lift the proud rattle, and dance on the land.
In feasting and dancing, our moments are gay;