Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face

In that desolate land and lone, Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone        &nbsp Roar down their mountain path, By their fires the Sioux Chiefs Muttered their woes and griefs        &nbsp And the menace of their wrath. "Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, "Revenue upon all the race        &nbsp Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" And the mountains dark and high From their crags re-echoed the cry        &nbsp Of his anger and despair. In the meadow, spreading wide By woodland and riverside        &nbsp The Indian village stood; All was silent as a dream, Save the rushing a of the stream        &nbsp And the blue-jay in the wood. In his war paint and his beads, Like a bison among the reeds,        &nbsp In ambush the Sitting Bull Lay with three thousand braves Crouched in the clefts and caves,        &nbsp Savage, unmerciful! Into the fatal snare The White Chief with yellow hair        &nbsp And his three hundred men Dashed headlong, sword in hand; But of that gallant band        &nbsp Not one returned again. The sudden darkness of death Overwhelmed them like the breath        &nbsp And smoke of a furnace fire: By the river's bank, and between The rocks of the ravine,        &nbsp They lay in their bloody attire. But the foemen fled in the night, And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight        &nbsp Uplifted high in air As a ghastly trophy, bore The brave heart, that beat no more,        &nbsp Of the White Chief with yellow hair. Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song,        &nbsp With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scathe,        &nbsp In the Year of a Hundred Years.