Indian Chief

Remember the arrow he shot from his bow, Remember the chiefs by his hatchet laid low; Why so slow? do you wait till I shrink from my pain? Know, the son of Alknumok shall never complain.

Remember the woods where in ambush we lay, The scalps that we bore from your nation away— Now the flame rises high, you exult in my pain, But the son of Alknumok shall never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone, His ghost shall rejoice at the fame of his son: Death comes like a friend to relieve me from pain— And thy son, O Alknumok has scorn'd to complain.