Wayside Weeds. Ellis William Hodgson

      Little White Crow had poured into his gun

      His last charge of powder, but bullets he’d none;

      He searched in his shot pouch again and again,

      He begged of his comrades, but begged all in vain;

      Among the whole party in fact there was not

      So much as one pellet of No. 6 shot.

      He was just giving up the whole job in disgust

      When his hand in his med’cine bag chancing to thrust,

      As Fortune would have it his fingers he ran

      Against the back tooth of the blessed Saint Anne!

      Little White Crow gave a terrible shout,

      The tooth in a trice from the bag he whipped out,

      Dropped it into his musket, and yelling still louder,

      He rammed it well home on the top of the powder.

      But here come the foe! From rocks, bushes and trees

      They start like a swarm of exasperate bees;

      A capital simile that is in any case,

      To describe an assault of Oneidas or Senecas:

      And one, as it happens, remarkably apt in

      This particular case, for the Iroquois Captain

      Was a chief called Big Hornet, – a beggar to fight,

      Who measured six feet and some inches in height.

      ’Twas he gave the signal to make the attack,

      ’Twas he led the rush of the bloodthirsty pack,

      And ’twas he, as he charged in the front of the foe,