THE INDIAN CHIEF AND CONCONAY.
The Indian Chieftain is far away,
Through the forest his footsteps fly;
But his heart is behind him with Conconay,
He thinks of his love in the bloody fray,
When the storm of war is high.
Through the forest his footsteps fly;
But his heart is behind him with Conconay,
He thinks of his love in the bloody fray,
When the storm of war is high.
But little he thinks of the bloody foe
Who is bearing that love away;
And little he thinks of her bosom's woe,
And little he thinks of the burning brow
Of his lovely Conconay.
Who is bearing that love away;
And little he thinks of her bosom's woe,
And little he thinks of the burning brow
Of his lovely Conconay.
They tore her away from her friends, from her home,
They tore her away from her Chief;
Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced her to roam,
Or to dash the light oar in the river's white foam,
While her bosom o'erflowed with grief.
They tore her away from her Chief;
Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced her to roam,
Or to dash the light oar in the river's white foam,
While her bosom o'erflowed with grief.
But there came a foot, 'twas swift, 'twas light,
'Twas the brother of him she loved;
His heart was kind, and his eye was bright;
He paused not by day, and he slept not by night,
While through the wild forest he roved.
'Twas the brother of him she loved;
His heart was kind, and his eye was bright;
He paused not by day, and he slept not by night,
While through the wild forest he roved.
