HANNAH LEE

THE prairie wind is sadly wailing,
The ripe leaves rustle from vine and tree.
The thistle-down is softly sailing
Above the grave of Hannah Lee.

Oh, never maiden in her dwelling
Met fouler fate by fiendish hand,
When from his lair with beast-like yelling
The savage burst with knife and brand.

Oh, never hair more brightly golden
Adorned a head more sweetly fair.
Nor ever, in the ages olden,
Walked earthly maid with queenlier air.

The brutal stake the breast impaling,
The golden hair torn from the head—
Well may the wind, with ceaseless wailing,
Forever mourn the queenly dead.

Far up the Athabasca’s sources
They hold the savage dance by night
And silken hair from maiden’s corses
Gleams from the spear in fiendish rite.

The midnight fire is fiercely glowing
On rolling stream, and rock and tree.
And from a chieftain’s spear is flowing
The golden hair of Hannah Lee.