Oh, give me back my bended bow,

My cap and feather, give them back,

To chase o’er hill the mountain roe,

Or follow in the otter’s track.

You took me from my native wild,

Where all was bright, and free and blest;

You said the Indian hunter’s child

In classic halls and bowers should rest.

Long have I dwelt within these walls

And poured o’er ancient pages long.

I hate these antiquated halls;

I hate the Grecian poet’s song.