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 Before the holy Prophet

Taught our grim tribes to pray;

Before Secunder's lances

Pierced through each Indian glen;

The mountain laws of honour Were framed for fearless men.

Still, when a chief dies bravely,

We bind with green one wrist Green for the brave, for heroes

ONE crimson thread we twist. Say ye, Oh gallant Hillmen,

For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting colour,

The green one or the red? '

'Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear

Their green reward, ' each noble savage said ; 'To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall

tear, Who dares deny the red?'

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,

Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly

Down on those daring dead ; From his good sword their heart's blood

Crept to that crimson thread. Once more he cried, 'The judgment,

Good friends, is wise and true,

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