When who should stray to our camp one day,
but Black Panther, the Cheyenne;
Drest like a Christian, all a-grin, the old one
joins our band,
And though the rest look'd black as sin, he
shakes me by the hand.
Now, the poor old cuss had been good to us,
and I knew that he was true,—
I'd have trusted him with life and limb as soon
as I*d trust you;