If I would let him here repose;
Then begged that I would deign to wave
My verdant branches o'er his grave.
And since the polished white man came,
He's loved and honored me the same;
Though all the neighboring trees around
Were slain, as cumberers of the ground,
Yet here I tower in grandeur still,—
The pride and glory of the hill.
My dauntless spirits never quail