Friend PIEGAN! with the war-paint on thy cheek,
I am thy friend; pray listen, then, to me—
Nay, do not scalp me!—may a Friend not speak?
Put up thy knife: I draw no knife on thee.
Friend PIEGAN! can thee count the forest leaves?
For every leaf, thee counts a Pale Face too!
Full many strokes the Red Man now receives:
But, PIEGAN friend, what can the Red Man do?
The Small-Pox and the Fever strike him down;
The White Man is his foe: he cannot live!
For the Great Spirit tells him, with a frown,
All men shall perish that will not forgive!
The Pale Face has been here? thy child is killed?
But little scales are hanging to thy belt!
Say, when thy father's heart with wrath was filled,
Did not thee know how thy White Brother felt?
Now, PIEGAN friend! thee has enough of war!
Bury the hatchet, and thy arrows break;
Wait for the Happy Hunting Grounds afar—
A Reservation that they cannot take!
The Latest from Albany.
'All O.K. till December.
Up and Down.
The almost universal cry, "Down with the taxes!" is inconsistent in one sense, because if taxes were Down, they would certainly be extremely light.
Running and Reid-in.
And now MAYNE REID is announced as having a lecture on BYRON. At this rate we shall soon have BYRON'S memory embalmed in Stowe-Reid greatness.