The Renegade

Up on the hillside policemen were climbing;
The ghosts of the night wind their fantasies did tell
Dark on the snow, with the blood drops a-drying
Slipped through cold fingers, the whiskey bottle fell
Kla-how-ya, mother, I leave you with your white man
I curse their church that tells us that our fathers were wrong
And I’ll hunt my own mowitch and I’ll drink my own whiskey
And I’ll sing until morning the old fashioned song
Fires of the potlatch are scattered in their ashes
Masache-tamanawis, the evil on remains
And our children cannot follow the old nor th new ways
And the poles of their fathers are rotting in the rain
Kla-how-ya, mother, I leave you with your white man
I curse their church that tells us that our fathers were wrong
And I’ll hunt my own mowitch and I’ll drink my own whiskey
And I’ll sing until morning the old fashioned song
Daylight came late over high coastal mountains
The renegade stood watching, his rifle by his side
Then he emptied his gun up into the pale yellow sunrise
And he ran down the hillside the to place where he died
Kla-how-ya, mother, I leave you with your white man
I curse their church that tells us that our fathers were wrong
And I’ll hunt my own mowitch and I’ll drink my own whiskey
And I’ll sing until morning the old fashioned song