The tribe tore out their hair, and put The blackening pigment on, and sang Their grieving songs; athirst for blood, Unheeding danger, struck their tents And formed for march, in single file, Back, back in gloom, to silent tombs, Beside the dark, deep bay, below Mount Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog, There to lay their beloved chief's Remains.

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