And the cycle brought its changes, As the moons were waxing, waning. The still tract of virgin woodland, Was invaded by the demon That the sweet primeval ages Soon were destined to encounter, The remorseless Indian demon, The bold red man of the forest. Then the wigwam and the peace-pipe Sent aloft the smoke of welcome, Welcome to the roving brothers, To the tribes that wandered restless, To the sachem and the chieftain, To the warrior and the maiden. I have said the tribes invaded The sweet haunts of Nature's children, Of her birds and beasts and reptiles, Of her rivers, rills, and streamlets; Of her trees and flowers and grasses, Yet the song of peace continued. Peaceful still, yet no more silent; For where man, with human passion, Dwells in all this wide creation, Strife is ever slumb'ring, waiting, Waiting for the magic touchstone, For the trouble he is born to, "Trouble, as the sparks fly upward." So there rose a reign of terror, Of dismay and cruel bloodshed, When the white man came among them, The all-potent, dreaded pale-face, He, another bold invader, An usurper of the woodland. When he came with might and fury, And the hatchet was uplifted, When the war-cry sounded louder, And the wigwam smoked in ashes, And the peace-pipe fell forever, From the lips all stiff and gory; And the sachem and the chieftain, And the warrior and the maiden, Fled for safety from the woodland, Roaming restless, ever moving, To the land of deer and bison, To the rolling, grassy prairies, To the distant unknown regions, To the placid, broad Pacific, To the setting of the sunlight.
In the days my Muse is singing, In the days of early settlers On the "dark and bloody ground," there Came a pioneer so famous For his greatness and his goodness, For his sterling sense of honor, For his frame of strength and vigor, For his nature, bold and hardy, And his spirit, firm and steady, That the annals of the nation, The proud archives of the country, Shout his name in stirring pæans, Blazon forth his fame and glory, From the rising to the setting Of the sun he loved to follow. Many days and nights he wandered O'er the turf of good old Garrard, Now in sight, perchance in hearing, Of the birds and beasts and reptiles, Roaming wild and roaming lonely, In the groves of fair Lancaster. Now in sight, perchance in hearing Of the melancholy plover, Of the bluebird's thrilling whistle, Of the redbird's gentle chirping, Of the blackbird's noisy chatter, Of the whippoorwill's soft pleading, And the ringdove's tender cooing. All these sounds, I trow, were welcome, To the pioneer hunter, Daniel Boone, the practiced hunter. On the plains and hills I'm singing, He has pitched his tent at nightfall, And has laid him down to slumber, With his deerskin wrapped about him, With his household gathered 'round him. And the creatures of the woodland, The dumb creatures of the forest, At the noisy crack and flashing Of his trusty, timeworn rifle, Fell, the prey of man's dominion, Formed his frugal fare and feasting. All about the plains and hilltops, Are his faded, sacred landmarks. Let them linger, ever linger, Faithful witnesses of honor; For the hunter sleeps forever, Daniel Boone, the sturdy hunter, Daniel Boone, the early settler, Sleeps beneath the waving bluegrass, Sleeps among the hills of Benson, On the river side at Frankfort.