Ye who skim the big lake floods, Ye who roam the western woods, Tribes and kindreds, large and small, Hear the mandatory call; All who feel with high control Throbbings of the Indian’s soul, Come, to save a threatened land From the rampart and the brand; From the arts and from the crimes Bred in transatlantic climes; From the thirst of pinching gains, That foredooms our sunny plains, And the cold unpitying rush, Name and rule that aims to crush, Till blow on blow, and stroke on stroke Bind on the hateful Saxon yoke. Firmness now is all that saves; To submit is to be slaves. Better die as warriors bold, Than be hunted, tracked and sold; Living days in misery rife, For the coward’s bounty—life! Warriors, rally to the field; Teach the lordly foe to yield; Spurn his counsels—spurn his laws; Strike alone for freedom’s cause; Let confusion cross his track; ’Tis the voice of Pontiac. Let your sufferings—let your wrongs Swell your rising battle songs; Strike your drums a noble peal, Boding deeds of strife and steel. Let your piercing battle yells Shake the wildest woodland dells, Reaching nations far and nigh, While our scouts prolong the cry, Till it reaches every ear Who the Indian’s wrongs can hear; Gathering force as on it sweeps Over mountains, lakes and steeps; Louder—louder every hour, Till it wakes our utmost power, Rousing all our warlike bands, Waking all our pillaged lands; Till one deep, appalling cry, } Rings throughout the western sky, } Echoing _vengeance_—_liberty_! } Back! thou bold invader, back! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac. Former woes provoke your ire, _Think_, but hate; and _feel_, but fire; Every peaceful hue be fled; Every hue but warlike red. Strangers occupy our soil; Sons of dull mechanic toil; They pollute our ancient seats, Altars, groves and fond retreats. Ever claiming deeper grants, _Nothing_ can allay their wants, Or evade their arts or will; But they drive, and drive us still; Pouring onward, as they go, Livid streams of liquid woe, That subdues the soul when quaffed— Bitter—bitter—bitter draught; Of all ills the last and worst, Spirit-brewed, and spirit-cursed. Fear not horseman’s heavy knife; We can give them life for life, Blow for blow, and dart for dart— Arrows are the woodman’s art; Sharp and true, as bow to string, Let your arrows swiftly sing. Warriors, on to the attack! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.