O my son, farewell! You have gone beyond the great river, Your spirit is on the other side of the Sand Buttes; I will not see you for a hundred winters; You will scalp the enemy in the green prairie, Beyond the great river. When the warriors of the Blackfeet meet, When they smoke the medicine-pipe and dance the war-dance, They will ask, "Where is Isthumaka? -- Where is the bravest of the Mannikappi?" He fell on the war-path. Mai-ram-bo, mai-ram-bo. Many scalps will be taken for your death; The Crows will lose many horses; Their women will weep for their braves, They will curse the spirit of Isthumaka. O my son! I will come to you And make moccasins for the war-path, As I did when you struck the lodge Of the "Horse-Guard" with the tomahawk. Farewell, my son! I will see you Beyond the broad river. Mai-ram-bo, mai-ram-bo. |