For long ago, for money’s sake, As well as with us now, Bold men would venture wood and lake, To fill the golden vow.
And forth the voyager he went, With goods of richest dye; And bark that was a sight to see, Far through the northern sky.
And lakes he past, and snows he trod, Where wolves and panthers cry, And nature’s poor, forsaken sons, The Indians, live and die.
He trafficked for a few brief months, For skin of beaver black; And aye he thought with wealth supreme To hie him quickly back.
But still the red man liked him not, For he had wilful ways; And ever, when the night returned, Would burn with passion’s blaze.
The voyager was a drinking man, And a man of swelling pride, Whom fury stirr’d, and lust of rule, And high impatience tried.
And when he had their wealth amassed, He loathed the Indian boor; And as with noise they vex’d his peace, He spurned him from his door.
The Indian is a passive man, To all observant eyes; But he has pride, and entertains Revenge, that never dies.
He has a soul that scorns to live Where slave or coward be; And all his goods are free to share, And wish—is to be free.
Free was he born, and free will die, And time, however long, Can ne’er erase an injury While he has pipe or song.
He may be kicked like any dog, But ah, beware the day, When he awakes from brawl, or draws The insult to repay.
This found the lordly voyager, Upon that fatal day, When deep in northern woods remote Arose the bloody fray.
And first, in peaceful words began The deep dissembled plot, And “give me drink!” the hunter cried— “Off, villain! from my cot.”
He pointed to the door, with air And gesture of a lord; Then turned him back within his tent, With haughty look and word.
Instant the Indian drew his knife, And in that twinkling frame He dealt a blow upon his neck, But dealt with erring aim.
The voyager he had a friend Among the Indian band, Who lay and slept, while Christian blood Thus dyed the yellow sand.
He started up, and drew a knife, With vengeance in his eye, And seiz’d the murd’rer by his hair, And, “Dog!” he utter’d, “die!”
And with these words, he smote with might, And pierced the Indian dread, Who prayed for life, and gasped for breath, Then sank to earth and bled.