Grey the day! And grey her life! Gone, the glory! Past, the strife! Daughter, she, of chieftains proud, Wooed by all with praises loud, For her beauty and her grace! Princess, she, of noble face! Many braves her favor sought But her hand could not be bought. It, to him, should given be, Who showed most of bravery. One there was, a warrior tall, Whom she loved the best of all. Wooed he her with silent glance. Oft they met, as if by chance. In the dance his stealthy tread, All the other dancers led. On the hunt for buffalo, He was always first to go; Or, when war-cries echoed shrill He was foremost o'er the hill. But the years have sped away, Leaving her old, bent and grey. Now the road with iron rail, Where was once the blood-stained trail! And the country all is changed— White men's homes where Sioux once ranged! Now her children's children go To be taught of the white foe. To the white man's God they pray She has never learned the way. She must potter round and work, Doing what the others shirk, Bring the wood, and water haul, (Clad in faded gown and shawl,) Make the fires, stir the soup. Others rest, but she must stoop O'er the kettle, keep it hot, Eat the dregs left in the pot. In a corner she may lie Crooning of the life gone by. Late I saw her on the road Bending neath a heavy load. Just a woman, old and grey, Trudging, lonely, on her way. |