BUFFALO LAND. 



BY OUR TAMMANT SACHEM. 



THERE'S a wonderful land far out in the West, 

 Well worthy a visit, my friend; 

 There, Puritans thought, as the sun went to rest, 



Creation itself had an end. 

 'Tis a wild, weird spot on the continent's face, 



A wound which is ghastly and red, 

 Where the savages write the deeds of their race 



In blood that they constantly shed. 

 The graves of the dead the fair prairies deface, 



And stamp it the kingdom of dread. 



The emigrant trail is a skeleton path; 



You measure its miles by the bones; 

 There savages struck, in their merciless wrath, 



And now, after sunset, the moans, 

 When' tempests are out, fill the shuddering air, 



And ghosts flit the wagons beside, 

 And point to the skulls lying grinning and bare 



And beg of the teamsters a ride; 

 Sometimes 'tis a father with snow on his hair, 



Again, 'tis a youth and his bride. 



What visions of horror each valley could tell, 



If Providence gave it a tongue ! 

 How often its Eden was changed to a hell, 



In which a whole train had been flung; 



(vii) 



