And from thy lip the scarlet fled,
Fast down his cheek the tear-drops rolled.
The land of souls lies distant far,
And dark and lonely is the road;
No ghost of night, no shining star,
Shall guide me to thy new abode.
Will some good Spirit to thee bring
The milky fruits of cocoa-tree?
To shield thee stretch his pitying wing?
Or spread the beaver’s skin for thee?