THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 103 



Oh ! listen to my plaintive cry 



And let us thro' the forest roam, 

 From the Indian's cabin fly, 



And from the whiteman's prouder home : 

 Each may prove a bitter foe, 

 Safety here we cannot know, 

 Willy-come-go, willy-willy-willy-come-go. 



SONG OF HE WORK-AWAY GOAT-SUCKER. 



Work-away, work- work-work- away, 

 To the tawny Indian boy I say ; 

 He places his hand on his ready bow, 

 And looks fiercely round for his hidden foe. 

 And swiftly the fatal arrow would fly, 

 But I catch the glance of his kindling eye. 



He slackens the string of his bow again, 

 And feels he has pointed the shaft in vain ; 

 That Indian boy will do me no wrong, 

 For he scorns to silence my idle song, 

 And calmly he smiles as he hears me say, 

 Work-away, work-work-work-away. 



