’Twas a cloudless morn and the sun shone bright, And dewdrops sparkled clear; And the hills and the vales of this Western land Were wreathed with garlands rare. For verdant spring with her emerald robe Had decked the forest trees; Whilst e’er and anon the vine-clad boughs Waved in the playful breeze.
All, all was still, not a sound was heard, Save the music of each tree, As gracefully it bent and bowed Its branches o’er the lea. But hark! a sound, ’tis the Red man’s tread, Breaks on the silent air; And a sturdy warrior issues forth, Robed in his native gear.