The Chippewa Girl
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 man’s 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.
Ninimosha,108 think’st thou of me,
When beneath the forest tree?
Do’st thou in the passing wind,
Catch the sighs I’ve cast behind?
Ah! I fear—I fear—I fear,
Evil bird hath filled thine ear.
Ninimosha, in the clear blue sky,
Canst thou read my constancy,
Or in whispering branches near,
Aught from thy true lover hear?
Ah! I fear—I fear—I fear,
Evil bird hath filled thine ear.