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.