was the p'int of his precious knife. But game to the bone was Phil, I'll own, and he always fought most fair, With as good a will to be killed as kill, true grit as any there: Of honour too, like me or you, he'd a scent, though not so keen, Would rather be riddled thro' and thro', than do what he thought mean. But his eddication to his ruination had not been over nice, And his stupid skull was choking full of vulgar prejudice; With anything white he'd drink, or he'd fight in fair and open fray; But to murder and kill was his wicked will, if an Injin came his way! * A sarpent's hide has p'ison inside, and an Injin's heart's the same, If he seems your friend for to gain his end, look out for the sarpent's game; Of the snakes that crawl, the worst of all is the snake in a skin of red, A spotted Snake, and no mistake?' that's what he always said. Well, we'd jest struck our bit of luck, and were wild as raving men, When who should stray to our camp one day, but Black Panther, the Cheyenne; Drest like a Christian, all a-grin, the old one joins our band, And though the rest look'd black as sin, he shakes _me_ by the hand. Now, the poor old cuss had been good to us, and I knew that he was true,-- I'd have trusted him with life and limb as soon as I*d trust _you_; For tho' his wit was gone a bit, and he drank like any fish, His heart was kind, he was well inclined, as even a white could wish. Food had got low, for we didn't know the run of the hunting-ground, And our hunters were sick, when, jest in the nick, the friend in need was found; For he knew the place like his mother's face (or better, a heap, you'd say, Since she was a squaw of the roaming race, and himself a castaway). Well, I took the Panther into camp, and the critter was well content, And off with him, on the hunting tramp, next day our hunters went, And I reckon that day and the next we didn't want for food, And only one in the camp looked vext--that Imp of Hell, Phil Blood. Nothing would please his contrairy ideas! an Injin made him rile! He didn't speak, but I saw on his cheek, a kind of an ugly smile; And I knew his skin was hatching sin, and I kept the Panther apart, For the Injin he was too blind to see the dirt in a white man's heart! Well, one fine day, we a-resting lay at noon- time by the creek, The red sun blazed, and we felt half-dazed, too beat to stir or speak; 'Neath the alder trees we stretched at ease, and we couldn't see the sky, For the lian-flowers in bright blue showers hung through the branches high.