I Hope That No More Groans Of

When The Last Deer Disappears Into The Morning Mist, When The Last Elk Vanishes From The Hills, When The Last Buffalo Falls On The Plains, I Will Hunt Mice For I Am A Hunter And I Must Have My Freedom.

When I Think Of Our Condition, My Heart Is Heavy. I See Men Of My Own Race Treated As Outlaws And Driven From Country To Country, Or Shot Down Like Animals.

My Father Was The First To See Through The Schemes Of The White Man.

If The White Man Wants To Live In Peace With The Indian He Can Live In Peace.

Our Chiefs Are Killed. . . . The Little Children Are Freezing To Death. . . . My People Have No Blankets, No Food. . . . My Heart Is Sick And Sad. . . . I Will Fight No More Forever.