Up on the hillside,
policemen climbing
The ghost called the night winds,
her fantasy to tell
Dark on the snow,
blood drops a -dryin'
Slip through cold fingers,
the whisky bottle
fell
I'll leave you with your white man I'll
curse their church that tells us that
our fathers were wrong
And I'll hunt my own mouth and I'll drink
I'll my whiskey and I'll sing until
morning the old -fashioned song
Fires of the potlatch are
scattered in their ashes
But such a common now
is the evil one's remain
And our children cannot follow
the old northern ways
And the poles of their fathers
are rotting in the rain
Klahau, you 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 mouse,
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 watch
in' with his rifle
by the side
And he emptied his gun up into
the yellow sunrise
And he ran down the hillside
to the place where he died
Klahau, you 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 knowledge, and I'll drink my own whiskey,
and I'll sing until morning the old -fashioned song.