“Alas for us; our day is o’er

Our fires are out from shore to shore;

No more for us the wild deer bounds—

The plow is on our hunting grounds.

The pale man’s ax rings through our woods,

The pale man’s sail skims o’er floods;

Our pleasant springs are dry.

Our children—look by power oppressed,

Beyond the mountains of the west—

Our children go—to die.”