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.