Indian melodies :: :: University of Virginia Library

They tell me the men with a white-white face,
Belong to a purer, nobler race,
But why, if they do, and it may be so,
Do their tongues cry ‘yes’—and their actions ‘no?’

They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue,
And it may be so, but the sky is blue;
And the first of men—as our old men say,
Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.

But throughout my life, I've heard it said,
There's nothing surpasses a tint of red;

Oh, the white's man cheeks look pale and sad,
Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.

Then let them talk of their race divine
Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine;
Give me a lodge, like my fathers had,
And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.

[To rove with the wild bird, and go where we will]

To rove with the wild bird, and go where we will,
Oh this is the charm of the forest-life still,
With our houses of bark and our food on the plain,
We are off in an instant, and back there again.

No farms can detain us—no chattels prevent,
We live not by ploughing—we live not by rent;
Our herds rove the forest—our flocks swim the floods,
And we skim the broad waters, and trip through the woods.

With ships not of oak wood, nor pitchy, nor strong,
We sail along rivers, and sail with a song;
We care not for taxes—our laws are but few,
And the dart is our sickle—our home the canoe.

If enemies press us, or evil feet stray,
We seize on our lances and fight them away;
And when we have nothing more pressing on hand,
We shake the proud rattle, and dance on the land.

We read no big volumes, and clearly from this,
If truths we don't gather, the errors we miss;
Our seers and our chieftains, they tell us what's right,
And freely we sing and we dance and we fight.

[The lady I saw at the gain-loving town]

The lady I saw at the gain-loving town,
Looked proudly, I ween, on the Iowa down,
But I thought if 'twere not for the power of dress,
The odds in our looks would be greatly the less.

Though garish and flaunty and lively and bright
With ribands and tassels and scarlet and white,
My own simple maiden is more to my view,
With her beaming dark eyes and her mantle of blue.

Oh, damsels of beauty, that dazzle the sight,
May be good and be wise and be kind and polite;
But my own native lass, to my own humble mind,
Is far more engaging and modest and kind.

She looks on me proudly, whenever I go,
With my new garnish'd robe, and my feathers and bow,
And all my ambition, in dresses and styles,
Is to copy her neatness, and smile as she smiles.

[My love, she gave to me a belt, a belt of texture fine]

My love, she gave to me a belt, a belt of texture fine,
Of snowy hue, emboss'd with blue, and scarlet porcupine;
This tender braid sustain'd the blade, I drew against the foe,
And ever prest upon my breast, to mark its ardent glow.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely fighting stand,
I, in the din, a trophy win, that gains Nemoosha's hand.

My love, she is a handsome girl, she has a sparkling eye,
And a head of flowing raven hair, and a forehead arched and high,
Her teeth are white as cowry shells, brought from the distant sea,
And she is tall, and graceful all, and fair as fair can be.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand,
And with address my suit I press, I gain Nemoosha's hand.

Oh, I will search the silver brooks for skin of blackest dye,
And scale the highest mountain-tops, a warrior's gift to spy;
I'll place them where my love shall see, and know my present true,
Perhaps when she admires the gift, she'll love the giver too.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand,
I'll gain my love's unsullied heart, and then I'll gain her hand.