"They said, 'They'd had an awful scare from Injuns,' an' they swore That savages had come around the very night before A-brandishing their tomahawks an' painted up for war.
"But when their plucky Englishmen had put a bit of lead Right through the heart of one of them, an' rolled him over, dead, The other cowards said that they had come on peace instead.
"'That they (the Whites) had lost some stores, from off their little pack, An' that the Red they peppered dead had followed up their track, Because he'd found the packages an' came _to give them back_.'
"'Oh!' they said, 'they were quite sorry, but it wasn't like as if They had killed a decent Whiteman by mistake or in a tiff, It was only some old Injun dog that lay there stark an' stiff.'
"I said, 'You are the meanest dogs that ever yet I seen,'
Then I rolled the body over as it lay out on the green; I peered into the face--My God! 'twas poor old Wolverine."
THE VAGABONDS
What saw you in your flight to-day, Crows, awinging your homeward way?
Went you far in carrion quest, Crows, that worry the sunless west?
Thieves and villains, you shameless things!
Black your record as black your wings.
Tell me, birds of the inky hue, Plunderous rogues--to-day have you
Seen with mischievous, prying eyes Lands where earlier suns arise?
Saw you a lazy beck between Trees that shadow its breast in green,
Teased by obstinate stones that lie Crossing the current tauntingly?
Fields abloom on the farther side With purpling clover lying wide--
Saw you there as you circled by, Vale-environed a cottage lie,
Girt about with emerald bands, Nestling down in its meadow lands?
Saw you this on your thieving raids?
Speak--you rascally renegades!
Thieved you also away from me Olden scenes that I long to see?
If, O! crows, you have flown since morn Over the place where I was born,
Forget will I, how black you were Since dawn, in feather and character;
Absolve will I, your vagrant band Ere you enter your slumberland.
THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS
West wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too; O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so, But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail, unship the mast: I wooed you long but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep, By your mountain steep, Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.
August is laughing across the sky, Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, Drift, drift, Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift.
The river rolls in its rocky bed; My paddle is plying its way ahead; Dip, dip, While the waters flip In foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now; The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And forward far the rapids roar, Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash, With a mighty crash, They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel.
We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby, Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
THE CAMPER
Night 'neath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim: Naught but the starlight lies 'twixt heaven, and him.
Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer; He and his Deity are brothers there.
Above his bivouac the firs fling down Through branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.
Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet, Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet,
The pine trees whispering, the heron's cry, The plover's passing wing, his lullaby.