The new North-west. [volume] (Deer Lodge, Mont.) 1869-1897, 1883-06-08
Bill Nye's Translation OF the Last Lament OF
the Indian Maiden.

People of my tribe, the sorrowing widow
of the dead Ouray speaks to you. She comes
| to you, not as the squaw Of the dead chief.
tain, to rouse you to war aud victory, but to
weep with you over the loss of our people
and the greed Of the pale face.
The fair Colorado, over whose rocky noun
tains we have roamed and hunted In the
olden time, is now overrun by the silver
plated Senator and the ssft-eyed dude.
We are driven to the small corner of the
earth to die, while the oppressor digs gopher
holes in the green grass and sells them to
the speculator Of the great cities toward the
rising sun.
Through the long, cold winter my people
have passed, in want and cold, while the
conqueror CT the peaceful Ute has worn $3.50
night.shirts and filled his pale skin with pie.
Cbipeta addresses you as the weeping
squaw of great man whose bones will one
day nourish the cucumber vine. Ouray now
sleeps beneath the brown grass of the canon
where the soft spring winds may stir the
dead leaves and the young coyote may como
and monkey over his grave. ..
BE, Ouray was ignorant In the ways of the
pale faces. He could not 60 to Congress for
be was not citizen of the United States.
He had not taken out his second papers. He
was simple child Of the forest, but he stuck
to Chipeta. He loved Chipeta like hired
man. That Is why the widowed squaw
weeps over him.
A few more years and shall join Ouray
my chief. Ouray, the big Indian from way
up the gulch. His heart is still open to me.
Chipeta could trust him, even among the
smiling maidens Of her tribe. Ouray was
true. There was no funny business In his
nature. He loved not the garb of the pale
face, but won my heart while he wore sad
die blanket and q look Of woe.
Chipeta looks to the north and to the
south, and all are about the graves of her
people. The refinement of the oppressor
has come, with its divorces, and schools, and
gin cocktails, and -four bread and fall cleo
tions, and We linger here like q boil on the
neck Of fat man. e1 #aE
Even when talk to you the damp winds
Of April are signing through my vertebr1. |
and I've got more pains In my back than . |
Weep with the widowed Chipeta. Bow
your heads and howl, for our harps arc hung
on the willows and our wild goose ID |
cooked.
Who will be left to mourn .. Chipeta's |
grave? None but the starving papooses of |
ny nation. We stand IN the gray mist Of |
spring like dead bullocks In the field of the
honest farmer, and the chilly winds of de- |
parting winter make us hump and gather
like burning buckstin.
All we can do is to wall. We are the red
'kInned walters from Wailtown. i
Colorado Is no longer the home Of the Ute. |
L is the dwelling place of the bonanza Sena.
or who doesn't know the difference be-
ween the plan Of salvation and the previous /
question.
Chipeta cannot vote. Chipeta connot pay
axes to great cation, but you will BE- apt
o hear her gentle voice, and her mellow
ackst will fill the air till her tongue Is cold
Ind they tuck the buffalo robes about her
md lay her by the aide Of her dead chieftain /
where The soulh wind and the sage hen are
Inging.