The Dark Horse Upon the Hill
He was an old Crow Indian
Rejected by all his kin,
That never fit in any world,
But now lived among white men.
He must have been near one hundred
In our scale of years on earth,
And acquired a wealth of wisdom
From the first day of his birth.
All his words would tell his visions,
And I can hear them all still—
Especially his prophecy:
The dark horse upon the hill.
The time would be of many storms,
And grim changes would occur—
There would be wars and many deaths
And the bloody, silver spur.
The chiefs would be great and many,
Yet their medicine be bad—
And on the land would be defeat—
Squaws would wither and be sad.
Yet, there would still be one more feared
To trap us with his cruel will—
The one that spoke of hope and change:
That dark horse upon the hill.
And so the once great nation falls
And becomes like all the rest—
The mighty banner now unfurled
As it sinks into the West.
Yes, that old Crow saw it all then—
Now we know the coming chill—
We hold blinded eyes open to
The dark horse upon the hill.
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