We will not have the wagons which make a noise

In the hunting grounds of the buffalo.

If the palefaces come further into our lands

There will be the scalps of your brethren in the wigwams of the Cheyennes.

I have spoken.

Accursed be the race that has seized on our country

And made women of our warriors.

Our fathers from their tombs reproach us as slaves and cowards.

I hear them now in the wailing winds;

The spirits of the mighty dead complain.

Their tears drop from the wailing skies.

Let the white race perish.

They seize your land, they corrupt your women,

They trample on the ashes of your dead!

Back whence they came, upon a trail of blood, they must be driven.