Comes the spring and its warm thaw,
Around your neck the eagle claw,
Upon your head the buffalo horn,
Today a great new chief is born.
So raise him fast toward the sun,
A heart now beats, a life comes forth,
It's eighteen hundred and twenty-one,
Today a Blackfoot life's begun.
Chorus: Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You've been a brave man for many years, Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there will be a better tomorrow.
Your youth is gone, the years have past,
Your heart is set, your soul is cast,
You stand before the council fire,
You have the mind and the desire,
Of notions wise you speak so well,
And in brave deeds you do excel.
It's eighteen hundred and fifty-three,
And you stand the chief of confederacy.
You are the leader, you are the chief,
You stand against both the liar and thief.
They trade braves whiskey, steal your land,
And they're coming in swift like the wind-blown sand.
They shoot the buffalo, kill the game,
And send their preachers in to shame.
It's eighteen hundred and sixty-four and you think of peace,
And you think of war.
You see the settlers in more numbers.
He takes whatever he encounters.
You've seen the Sioux all battered, beaten,
They're all in rags, they haven't eaten.
The Nez Perce were much the same,
It seems like such a heartless game.
And it's eighteen hundred and seventy-six,
And the enemy's full of those death-dealing tricks.
Today the treaty stands on the table,
Will you sign it, are you able?
It offers food and protection too,
Do you really think they'll hold it true?
It offers a reserve - now isn't that grand?
And in return you cede all your land.
And it's eighteen hundred and seventy-seven,
And you know the scales are so uneven.
Chorus . . .
Well, the buffalo are slaughtered, There's nothing to eat,
The Government's late again with the meat.
Your people are riddled with the white man's disease,
And in the summer you're sick, And in the winter you freeze.
And sometimes you wonder why you signed that day,
But they broke the treaty themselves anyway.
And it's eighteen hundred and eighty-nine,
And your death star explodes and then it falls.
Chorus ....
The years have past, the years have flown.
The nation since has swiftly grown,
But yet for the Indian it's all the same,
There's still the hardship, There's still the pain,
There's still the hardship, There's still the strife,
Its bitterness shines like a whetted knife.
There's still the hypocrisy. And still the hate,
Was that in the treaties, is that our fate?
We're all unhappy pawns in the Government's game.
And it's always the Indians who get the blame.
It's a problem which money can never lessen.
And it's nineteen hundred and seventy-one.
Chorus . . .
Maybe one day you'll find honesty,
Instead of the usual treachery.
Perhaps one day the truth shall prevail.
And the warmth of love which it does entail
Chorus...
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