The Hunters
In valleys where the white man’s foot
Ne’er treads the early dew,
By mighty streams, whose waters deep
Ne’er bear his light canoe;
In wild woods, where the settler’s axe
Ne’er fells the ancient tree,
There the Great Spirit wings our feet
To roam the forest free.
When points the shadow to the west,
We string the ready bow;
Hark!-the wild stag is in the woods,
His foot is on the snow.
The deer are in the forest path,
Their speed outstrips the gale,
And through our pleasant hunting grounds
We follow on their trail.
Far from the white man’s corn and maize,
The ancient woods we roam;
The forest is the red man’s ground,
The wilderness his home.
There the Good Spirit of our race,
The friendly Manitou,
Guides the red Indian’s mocassin,
When bounding o’er the dew.
