Steep, my little papoose;
Thy father hunteth the moose;
For thee and me he wanders long,
His heart is brave, his hand is strong,
His bow is mighty as the oak,
His arrow is the lightning's stroke,
In vain the wild fowl shun his noose;
Steep, my little papoose.
Sleep, my little papoose;
The hooting owl is loose;
The fawn is sleeping by the doe,
The calf beside the buffalo,
The turkey hen above her brood
Is guarding lest the wolf intrude,
The gosling nestles 'neath the goose;
Sleep, my little papoose.
__Harry Edward Mills.
Harry Edward Mills
(Fort Scott: Sunflower Press. 1901)