For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:
Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless—swing your rifles as we run!
Ha! the dust is red behind him; shout, my brothers, he is won!
Look not on him as he staggers—’tis the last shot he will need;
More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede—
Ere we stem the swarthy breakers—while the wolves, a hungry pack,
Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-track!
THE SONG OF THE CAMP.