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!