On a grassy knoll near by Where the rustling leaves were piled, Knelt a mighty chief of a mighty tribe, And his band of warriors wild. For the rising sun had shown To the trained eyes of that band, That vessels three, like white-winged birds, Were steering straight for land.

Whence comes this stranger fleet? Whence hails this Pale Face crew? And the chieftain’s brow was wrapped in pain As his tomahawk he drew. Then, with quivering voice, he said Some evil may betide; From the land of the sky this host has come⁠— Let’s haste to the river side.