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The Trapper died—our hero—and we grieved;
 * In every heart in camp the sorrow stirred.

"His soul was red!" the Indian cried, bereaved;
 * "A white man, he!" the grim old Yankee's word.

So, brief and strong, each mourner gave his best—
 * How kind he was, how brave, how keen to track;

And as we laid him by the pines to rest,
 * A negro spoke, with tears: "His heart was black!"