But a black suit and white choker,
On his head a silk broad brimmer,
In his hand a stick for walking,
He has turn’d him from the war-path,
He has buried deep the hatchet,
Gives us sermons ’stead of war-whoops,
And the Pale-face is his brother;
Welcome then, O Pahtahquahong
From the realms of Lake and forest,
From the happy hunting valleys,