The breeze that floats lightly around me,
Perchance may soon visit his brow;
Oh, bear on thy bosom a message,
We are watching, oh, why wilt thou roam?
The heart has grown sad and dejected,
For we miss thee, all miss thee at home.
The Indian Hunter.
Let me go to my home in the far distant West,
To the scenes of my youth, that I like the best;