"This scarf of crimson grand,
By brave Sir Isaac's hand,
Was bound round me with praise, when his heart towards
me was stirred;
I belt it around you,
My brother brave and true,
Think about Tecumthe, and remember his last word.
"When on the red war-path,
War fiercely to the death,
Be pitiful and tender to the helpless and the fair,
I fought--have many slain,
But not a single stain
Of blood of maids or children dims the good sword I wear.
"Brother, a forest maid
Within my wigwam stayed,
She is called before me, far beyond the glowing west,
This battle lost or won,
You'll take my little son,
Train him a Shawnee brave, let him be in deer skin drest.
"When grown a warrior strong,
To feel his nation's wrong,
When he is fierce in battle, and wise in council fire,
Worthy my sword to wear,
Then with a father's care,
Let thy hand belt upon him the good sword of his sire.
"Tell him, I lived and fought
For my nation and had not
A thought but for their good on resentment for their wrong,
Nor ever wished to have
Any gift the pale-face gave
Nor learned a single word of the fatal pale-face tongue
'Tell him, he is the last
Of a race great in the past,
Before the foot of white men had stepped upon our strand
And if fate will not give
Any place where they may live
Let him die among his people and for his people's land.
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