One April morning old Tanle Hair
Rose up a rebel to Pine Ridge fare:
He wanted flour that had tasted wheat,
Cattle whose bones had the smell of meat;--
About the tepee of Tangle Hair;
The grass was short and the ponies thin,
But hunger tugged at his tepee pin:
He looked at his squaw and his dark pappoose,
Thought of his days when free and loose,
Of the gristly stock in the grim stockade--
Saddled and started on Tangle Hair's Raid.

Ah! sweet are the April gales that blow
On Beaver Valley and fair Bordeaux,
The air was soft as a maiden's cheek,
The curlew whistled his warning shriek,
The magpie chattered, the robin sung,--
Nature and Tangle Hair were young.
Again with his primitive bow and spear
He lurked on the path of the black-tailed deer;
Again, as in youth, his eye dilates
At the lofty pass of Sheridan's Gates.


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