Classic Poem

A — oo, my brothers, the moon is red,
And the antelope starts from his prairie bed,
Then join ye again in the ancient threne,
For the day that's dead,
And the hunt that's fled,
And the terror of things unseen.

Afar, afar, on the star-lit plain,
Our fathers howled where the deer had lain,
And hung on the flanks of the bison-run,
For the bull that fell,
In that wild pell-mell,
Had died ere the night was done.

No more the warrior rides his raids,
And the hunting star of the prairie fades,
While a fiery comet tears the night
With a crimson streak
And a demon's shriek,
All ablaze with the white man's light.

But oft when the winter wind is high,
We hear on the prairie the bellowed cry
And the rumbling hoofs of the bison-run.
But we seek in vain,
Through the empty plain,
For the buffalo days are done.

A — oo, my brothers, the stars are red
And the lean coyote must mourn unfed.
Come join ye again in the ancient croon,
For the dawn is gray,
And another day
Has faded the red, red moon.