THE OLD CARRY

By Joseph Mills Hanson

ROUND by tawny, foam-lipp'd streams,

Portage des Sioux,

In thy name what romance dreams,

Portage des Sioux!

But thy trails, once deep and worn,

Now lie gulfed in rustling corn,

And thy forest depths are shorn,

Portage des Sioux.

Where are all the dusky feet,

Portage des Sioux,

Trod thy pathways like a street,

Portage des Sioux?

Nevermore thy vales shall know

Flash of spear and twang of bow,

Nor the evening camp-fire's glow,

Portage des Sioux.

Yet when summer moonlight falls,

Portage des Sioux,

On thy glades and forest walls,

Portage des Sioux,

Phantom figures seem to go

‘ Neath the branches bending low,

Moccasined and pacing slow,

Portage des Sioux.

And the hoot-owl's mournful rune,

Portage des Sioux,

Quavers toward the sailing moon,

Portage des Sioux,

While, where shore and river meet,

Sob the waves with pulsing feet

Like a tom-tom's dying beat,

Portage des Sioux.