The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,

But glory remains when their lights fade away;

Begin, ye Tormentors! your threats are in vain,

For the son of ALKNOMOOK shall never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;

Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low:

Why so slow! Do you wait till I shrink from my pain?

No — the son of ALKNOMOOK shall never complain.

Remember the wood — where in ambush we lay,

And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.

Now the flame rises fast! You exult in my pain:

But the son of ALKNOMOOK shall never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone;

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son:

Death comes like a friend — he relieves me from pain:

For the son of ALKNOMOOK has scorn’d to compain.