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Prairie songs
Full far these errant sons of Gaul Have journeyed from the gray sea-wall That fronts on fair Marseilles, But still the spirit of their race Bids them to turn a dauntless face On whate'er Fates prevail. The storm may drive to bush and den The creatures of the field and fen, But neither storm nor darksome night Nor ice-bound stream nor frowning height Can check or turn or put to flight These iron-hearted men.
Across the fiats of stinging sands,
Through thickets, woods, and sere uplands,
Their weary pathway shows;
Toward some far fort of logs and stakes
Deep hidden in the willow brakes,
Right onward still it goes
Persistently, an unblazed track,
Bent from the cheerless bivouac
Of some poor, prairie Indian band
Whose chill and flimsy tepees stand
Half buried in the snows.
Yet what of costly merchandise
That wealth may covet, commerce prize,
Can these adventurers wring
From that ill-fed, barbarian horde
As seems to them a meet reward
For all the risk and toil and pain
They've suffered on the winter plain
Amid their journeying?
Ah, wealth enough is garnered there, Though not of gold or jewels rare, To rouse the white man's longing greed And send his servants forth with speed To lay the treasure bare. The trinkets cheap these traders brought |
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