A-oo, my brothers, the moon is red,
And the antelope starts from his prairie bed --
Then join ye again in the ancient threne
For the day that's dead,
And the hunt that's fled
And the terror of things unseen!

Afar, afar on the starlit plain
Our fathers howled where the deer had lain,
And hung on the flanks of the bison run --
For the bull that fell
In the wild pell-mell
Had died ere the night was done!

No more the warrior rides his raids,
And the hunting-star of the prairie fades;
While a fiery comet tears the night,
[With a crimson stream]1
And a demon shriek,
All ablaze with the white man's light!

But oft when the winter winds are high,
We hear on the prairie the bellowed cry 
And the rumbling hoofs of the bison run -- 
But we seek in vain 
Through the empty plain,
For the buffalo days are done. . . . 

A-oo, my brothers, the stars are red,
And the lean coyote must mourn unfed.
Come join ye again in the ancient croon --
For the dawn is gray
And another day
Has faded the red, red moon...