human
It is the cry of their women, who bewail Their warriors dead, Not the east wind we hear! It is the noise of their women, who rail At those who fled, Not whistling hail we hear! It is the rush of feet that are afraid, Not the swift flight of deer!
gpt
Let them flee,--the East Gate Keepers-- Whose dead lie still as sleepers! Let the Canienga fly before our wrath, Scatter like chaff, When we Oneidas laugh! Koué!
human
Holder of Heaven, And every Chief named in the Great Rite! Dancers Seven! And the Eight Thunders plumed in white! At dawn I was a young man, Who had seen no enemy die. But my foe was a deer who ran, And I struck; and let him lie.
gpt
The Mohawk Nation has fled, But my war-axe sticks in its head! Koué!
human
Let the Wild Goose keep to the skies! Where the Brant alights, he dies! Koué!
gpt
The Lodge poles crack in the East! The Long House falls. Who calls the Condolence Feast? Who calls?
human
Who calls the Roll of the Dead? Who opens the door? The Fire in the West burns red, But our fire-place burns no more! Thendara--Thendara no more!