Vm BUFFALO LAND. 



How death cry and battle-shout frightened the birds, 

 And prayers were as thick as the leaves, 



And no one to catch the poor dying one's words 

 But Death, as he gathered his sheaves : 



You see the bones bleaching among the wild herds, 

 In shrouds that the field spider weaves. 



That era is passing — another one comes, 



The era of steam and the plow, 

 With clangor of commerce and factory hums. 



Where only the wigwam is now. 

 Like mist of the morning before the bright sun. 



The cloud from the land disappears ; 

 The Spirit of Murder his circle has run 



And fled from the march of the years ; 

 The click of machine drowns the click of the guir 



And day hides the night time of tears. 



