I don’t know who this Indian I, a bow within his hand.
But he is hiding by a tree and watching white mans land.
They may be goods, they may be friends,
They certainly look rum. He wonders who on earth they are
and why on earth they come,
and why on earth they come,
and why on earth they come.

He knows his streams are full of fish,
his forest full of deer.
And his tribe is the mighty tribe, that all the others fear.
And then the French or English came the Spanish or the Dutch.
And tell him they are mighty men
and no one else is much,
and no one else is much,
and no one else is much.

They kill his deer and net his fish and clear away his wood
and frequently remark to him, they do it for his good.
They will scalp and he will shout
And he will burn and slay,
And break the treaties he has made
and children so will they,
and children so will they,
and children so will they.

We won’t get into all of that, for it’s too long a story,
and some is brave and some is bad and nearly all is glory.
And just remember this about our anchester so dear,
They didn’t find an empty land,
the Indians were here,
the Indians were here,
the Indians were here.

Yes they were here!