Suggested by the eagerness and the multitude of the applicants for Indian Superindendencies and Agencies

’Tis strange to think how hard they love us—
   These kind-hearted Christian whites
Tho’ “by nature so far above us”
   Stooping each his fondness plights.

How blest we are, we little reds
   To get such great attentions—
Pure love for us has addled heads
   Of most superb pretentions.

These good old souls along the line
   Will sell their very purses—
Take long travels—grow quite divine—
   To get to be our nurses.

Of dimes and cents they never dream
   Or stoop to flatt’ries hollow;
O’er their proud souls doth never gleam
   The magic of a dollar. No indeed!

They kneeling plead for our poor race
   All elbowing off th’ others,
With streaming eyes they stretch their grace
   To get to be our “fathers.”

We are but children at the most,
   Poor, weakly, red and puny,
But for our dear sakes to brave the worst,
   Indeed ’tis “sorter” funny.

They leave their homes and all that’s dear—
   Go to the Fed’ral City—
Yet oft, Uncle Sam! he will not hear,
   Indeed it is a pity.

If he but knew how hard they loved us—
   How all their examples past
Have so moralized and improved us,
   That now we are wond’rous blest.

He would not—could not thus mistreat them,
   He would hush their plaintive cries
The whole colony! he would greet them!
   Drying tears with Agencies.

Before a one should miss a berth
   As needs he’d make another
Till every Indian on the earth
   Should have a sep’rate “father.”

And this I think he ought to do
   ’Tis only what they merit
Where’er there’s a good on this broad earth
   “They have a right” to share it!