As he sat there upon the mountain top
Looking out at the native lands below,
The GREAT WHITE SPIRIT strode across the sky,
Trailing a great cloak of fleece-white clouds
Shedding tears onto the desolated lands below.
Oh! How great be his sorrow
With lakes and rivers poisoned by man,
With mountains and plains denuded of trees—
That leafy expression of His great love.
The buffalo no longer stomp over the plains
Filling the sky with a thunder of hooves.
Never again come the great flocks of birds
Darkening the sun with an abundance of wings.
Prairie grass no longer grows high enough
For a man to hide himself within.
There are no quiet woods in which to walk a mile.
No clean, sweet stream from which to drink,
Is the mournful cry of the wolf.
And the upland plains are now turned to dust.
Oh, GREAT SPIRIT, is this how it is to end?
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