Peter John Allan (1825-1848 / Canada)

The Indian to the stake is tied,
There is courage in his eye;
And a smile has curled his lip of pride,
As he speaks thus tauntingly:-

'See you this hand? 'Twas this that slew
Your great, your boasted chief!
He fell, as summer's raindrops do,
Or like yon withered leaf.

'Behold! his scalp is at my belt;
'Twas as he turn'd to flee,
The deadly blow this hatchet dealt-
This hatchet swung by me.

'Now torture; for thy greatest skill
Those red-hot irons ply;
Your coward hearts are nerv'd to kill,
And mine is nerv'd to die!'