Indian
by Rosemary and Stephen Vincent Benet
I don't know who this Indian is,A bow within his hand,
But he is hiding by a tree
And watching white men land,
They may be gods - - they may be fiends - -
They certainly look rum.
He wonders who on earth they are
And why on earth they've come. He knows his streams are full of fish,
His forests full of deer,
And his tribe is the mighty tribe
That all the others fear.
-- And, when the French or English land,
-- The Spanish or the Dutch,
They'll t
ell him they're the mighty tribe
An no one else is much.
And clear away his wood,
And frequently remark to him
They do it for his good.
They he will scalp and he will shoot
And he will burn and slay
And break the treaties he has made
- - And, children, so will they. We won't go into all of that
For it's too long a story,
And some is brave and some is sad
And nearly all is gory.
But, just remember this about
Our ancestors so dear:
They didn't find any empty land,
The Indians were here. Benet, Rosemary and Stephen Vincent. A Book of Americans. NY: Holt, 1961.
"Ball players" painted by George Catlin, illustrates various Native Americans playing lacrosse. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
