'Twas many a year ago,
When on the Baraboo, By the dark waters,
Dwelt there an Indian band,
Bravest in all the land,
Their sons and daughters.

There had their fathers dwelt,
On those green hills knelt,-
When the Great Spirit
Flashed throught the bursting cloud,
Spoke throught the thunder loud,
They knelt to hear it.

There did the bison roam,
There was the red deer's home,
There the wildcat, and
There by the water's brink
Did the muskrat and mink
Flourish and fatten.

Down in the dark ravine
Found they the wolverine
And the wood pigeon;
Partridge and prairie hen
Whirled throught the tangled glen
Woodcock and widgeon.

Stern had these warriors frown,
Their hearts were hearts of stone,
Their eyes were tearless;
And many a scalp they bore
Home to the wigwam door,
They brave and fearless.

And when the chase was o'er
And the warwhoop no more
Sounded to slaughter,
Who was the first to bring
Draughts from the cooling spring?
'Twas the chieftain's daughter!

'Twas the young Ossawee,
Fairest of all was she,
Her voice the sweetest-
Her eyes were the brighter far
Than the mild evening star,
Her foot the fleetest.

She roamed the wild woods o'er,
And to the wigwam door
Brought wreaths of flowers;
She climbed the linden tree,
The ring-dove's nest to see,
Watched it for hours.

Once came there to the band
One from a distant land,
A chief, a stranger,
An enemy,-above
All other passion, love
Led him to danger.

He saw young Ossawee,
Under the linden tree,
He never forgot her;
And now he stood before
Kosh-ka, the chieftain's door,
Asking his daughter.

Dark flashed the chieftain's eye:
"Go, dog," said he, "or die,
Ossawee never
Shall wed a Cherokee;
Back to your tribe, or be,
Plunged in the river!"

"Fly!" cried Ossawee,
"Fly, I will follow thee;
Under the linden tree
Swift steeds are waiting." And like the winged wind
Left they the chief behind,
Frowning and raging.

Swift over flade and glen,
Forth rushed a hundred men
With the wind vying,-
Where is young Ossawee?
Where is the Cherokee?
Vainly they're flying.
Vainly they hope to find
Respite, and leave behind
Their wild pursuers.
Nearer and nearer they
Rush on to seize their prey.

"Over the clift!" she cried,-
Over the clift they ride,
Now where the waves are still,
Under that frowning hill,
Sleep they forever.

Time laid the linden low,
Full many a year ago,
And the red ranger
Long since has passed away
Under the cruel sway
Of the pale stranger.

But when the sun is low,
Stranger shadows come and go.
And from the river
Comes forth the Indian bride
And dances by the side
Of her weird lover.
Reedsburg Free Press, May 24, 1872. *Will F. Bundy was an early settler, with his parents, in the Quaker settlement, town of Woodland, and the substance of this poem if from real life, abapted from an Indian legend of that vicinity.