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34 From the land of the White Rabbit!

You have stolen the maiden from me,

You have laid your hand upon her,

You have wooed and won my maiden,

With your stories of the North-land!"

Thus the wretched Shawondasee

Breathed into the air his sorrow;

And the South-Wind o'er the prairie

Wandered warm with sighs of passion,

With the sighs of Shawondasee,

Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes,

Full of thistle-down the prairie,

And the maid with hair like sunshine

Vanished from his sight for ever;

Never more did Shawondasee

See the maid with yellow tresses!

Poor, deluded Shawondasee!

'T was no woman that you gazed at,

'T was no maiden that you sighed for,

'T was the prairie dandelion