They but forget we Indians owned the land
From ocean unto ocean; that they stand
Upon a soil that centuries agone
Was our sole kingdom and our right alone. 
They never think how they would feel to-day,
If some great nation came from far away,
Wresting their country from their hapless braves,
Giving what they gave us—­but wars and graves. 
Then go and strike for liberty and life,
And bring back honour to your Indian wife. 
Your wife?  Ah, what of that, who cares for me? 
Who pities my poor love and agony? 
What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,
As prayer is said for every volunteer
That swells the ranks that Canada sends out? 
Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout? 
Who prays for our poor nation lying low? 
None—­therefore take your tomahawk and go. 
My heart may break and burn into its core,
But I am strong to bid you go to war. 
Yet stay, my heart is not the only one
That grieves the loss of husband and of son;
Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;
Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;
One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child
That marches on toward the North-West wild. 
The other prays to shield her love from harm,
To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm. 
Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,
Your tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink. 
She never thinks of my wild aching breast,
Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest
Endangered by a thousand rifle balls,
My heart the target if my warrior falls. 
O! coward self I hesitate no more;
Go forth, and win the glories of the war. 
Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men’s hands,
By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,
Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low... 
Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.

DAWENDINE

There’s a spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore,
They are chanting, they are singing through the starlight evermore,
As they steal amid the silence,
    And the shadows of the shore.

You can hear them when the Northern candles light the Northern sky,
Those pale, uncertain candle flames, that shiver, dart and die,
Those dead men’s icy finger tips,
    Athwart the Northern sky.

You can hear the ringing war-cry of a long-forgotten brave
Echo through the midnight forest, echo o’er the midnight wave,
And the Northern lanterns tremble
    At the war-cry of that brave.

And you hear a voice responding, but in soft and tender song;
It is Dawendine’s spirit singing, singing all night long;
And the whisper of the night wind
    Bears afar her Spirit song.

And the wailing pine trees murmur with their voice attuned to hers,
Murmur when they ’rouse from slumber as the night wind through them stirs;
And you listen to their legend,
    And their voices blend with hers.