C OLD the winds blew—down fell the rain,
A white man shelter ask'd in vain;
He came, and sat beneath our tree;
How weary, and how faint was he!
For him no wife the corn shall grind,
No milk a mother's gift he'll find.

CHORUS

  To the white man let us be kind!
  His wife and mother's left behind;
  In us the mother he shall find,
  In us the wife his corn shall grind.