 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
130
WAR SONG OF THE COMANCHES.
Oh, who with the sons of the plain can compete,
When from west, south and north like the torrents they meet?
And when doth the face of the white trader blanche,
Except when at moon rise he hears the Comanche?
Will you speak in our lodge of a bold Caiawah?
He is brave, but it is when our braves are afar;
Will you talk of the gun of the Arapeho?
Go—first see the arrow spring off from our bow.
The white wolf goes with us wherever we ride;
For food there is plenty on every side;
And Mexican bones he has plenty to cranch,
When he follows the troop of the flying Comanche.
The Toyah exults in his spear and his shield,
And the Wequah—but both have we taught how to yield;
And the Panana horses our women now ride,
While their scalps in our lodges are hung side by side.
Let the Wawsashy boast; he will run like a deer,
When afar on the prairie our women appear;
The shaven scalps hang, in each lodge three or four—
We will count then again, and ere long there 'll be more.
The Gromonts came down—'tis three summers ago—
To look for our scalps and to hunt buffalo;
But they turned to the mountains their faces again,
And the trace of their lodges is washed out by rain.
The Spirit above never sends us his curse,
And the buffalo never gets angry with us;
We are strong as the storm—we are free as the breeze;
And we laugh at the power of the pale Ikanese.[1]
Let them come with the pipe; we will tread it to dust,
And the arrow of war shall ne'er moulder with rust:
Let them come with their hosts; to the desert we 'll flee,
And the drought and the famine our helpers shall be.
When from west, south and north like the torrents they meet?
And when doth the face of the white trader blanche,
Except when at moon rise he hears the Comanche?
Will you speak in our lodge of a bold Caiawah?
He is brave, but it is when our braves are afar;
Will you talk of the gun of the Arapeho?
Go—first see the arrow spring off from our bow.
The white wolf goes with us wherever we ride;
For food there is plenty on every side;
And Mexican bones he has plenty to cranch,
When he follows the troop of the flying Comanche.
The Toyah exults in his spear and his shield,
And the Wequah—but both have we taught how to yield;
And the Panana horses our women now ride,
While their scalps in our lodges are hung side by side.
Let the Wawsashy boast; he will run like a deer,
When afar on the prairie our women appear;
The shaven scalps hang, in each lodge three or four—
We will count then again, and ere long there 'll be more.
The Gromonts came down—'tis three summers ago—
To look for our scalps and to hunt buffalo;
But they turned to the mountains their faces again,
And the trace of their lodges is washed out by rain.
The Spirit above never sends us his curse,
And the buffalo never gets angry with us;
We are strong as the storm—we are free as the breeze;
And we laugh at the power of the pale Ikanese.[1]
Let them come with the pipe; we will tread it to dust,
And the arrow of war shall ne'er moulder with rust:
Let them come with their hosts; to the desert we 'll flee,
And the drought and the famine our helpers shall be.
131
The mountain Shoshones have hearts big and strong;
Our brothers they are, and they speak the same tongue:
And let them in battle but stand by our side,
And we scorn Ikanese and black Spaniard allied.
Oo-oo-ha! Come out from the Brazos Cañon![2]
Let us range to the head of the salt Semaron!
For our horses are swift, and there 's hair to be won,
When the Ikanese waggons their track are upon.
Our brothers they are, and they speak the same tongue:
And let them in battle but stand by our side,
And we scorn Ikanese and black Spaniard allied.
Oo-oo-ha! Come out from the Brazos Cañon![2]
Let us range to the head of the salt Semaron!
For our horses are swift, and there 's hair to be won,
When the Ikanese waggons their track are upon.
| Prose sketches and poems | |