At the flick of the shot-tossed sod,
Six braves have lurched to the fore fetlocks
And two of the Sergeant's squad.
But Ross has tightened his sabre-belt
And given the roan his head,
And set his pace for a single chase,
A furlong's length ahead.
He has set his pace for the chief, Black Bear,
Who shrinks from a strong man's strife
But flaunts in the air the long, brown hair