Cololoo.—an Indian Tale, Song

Aged Logan led the fight, Logan's fame is ever new,— Logan seiz'd a treacherous White, His murder'd children rush to view:

"Curses blast thee! pale-faced Savage, Ruin seize thy ruthless kind, Train'd to rapine, skill'd to ravage, Gain, the God that grasps thy mind.

Now ye red men take your fill, Give the scalping knife its due, The red right arm is bare to kill,— This my children, this to you."

Reeking from the white man's brain, Lo! he lifts the scalp on high; "Logan does not wish thee pain, Fly to death's dark caverns, fly!

See they come! they come to meet us! Raise the yell that makes them quake, Say,—shall puny white men beat us? Men that every blast can shake?

Men that fear the rushing rain, Men that fear the clouded sky, Men that shrink and howl at pain, Nor know to triumph when they die.

Now ye Tiger tribe be brave, Think that Logan sees the fight; Scalps on scalps adorn my cave, Glad'ning to my children's sight.

Sulph'rous smokes obscure the view, War! the hills and dales reply. Now ye red men, now be true! Ye know to fight! ye dare to die!"

Hand to hand the warriors rush, Shouts and yells in echoes die; Tom'hawks cleave, and bay'nets push,— They fly! they fly! the white men fly!

One brave band alone remains, One alone of all that band, Every shot and blow sustains, Red like ours his heavy hand.

See they sink—he's left alone,— Still our warriors stain the fields; See! he falls, but fighting on Sits, and still his sword he wields.

Logan seiz'd the brave man's arm, Longing, look'd upon his face; Logan will not do thee harm, Tho' thou art of faithless race;

Logan's sons had been like thee,— White men shot them from the bush; The brave shall not be harm'd by me,— He's dead,—he's flown,—and all is hush.—

None thy beauteous corse shall wound; None thy hairy scalp shall tear; Thou shalt sleep with warriors round, Thou the dead-men's feast shall share.

Seize the scalps, and count the slain; White-men, weep your brothers' woes! Ease our dying chiefs from pain:— White men learn to fear your foes!

So, Logan triumph'd o'er the foe; Logan's fame was fairly won: So, Logan laid the white-men low,— —But set is Logan's sun,—

Why bring ye not the heated stone, To sear and seam my manly breast? Why sure the torture is not done! Such pain Cololoo bears in jest.