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THE OLD SAC VILLAGE.
Ye who read in musty volumes Pages worn of Backwoods Times, Of the red man and the white man, In the thrilling days of danger, In the gall of border troubles, In the wastes of deadly revenge, And the ruffian hands of torture; And of long and fierce death grapples, With the bloody hands of combat, On the yawning edge of famine; Of adventure's rustling footsteps, When the knees of stoutest valor Smote together as they paused, where Lynx-eyed strategy lay crouching, On the bosom of still ambush, Ready from his hands to let loose A loud leash of swift cruelties; Ye who read these musty volumes, Till a strange sensation thrills you, As of Indians skulking near you, Lay aside your volume lightly, Hear me sing of Nanawawa.
Ye who pore for weary hours, In the deep wild nooks of legend,