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Comes the spring and its warm thaw, Around your neck the eagle claw,
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Upon your head the buffalo horn, Today a great new chief is born.
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So raise him fast toward the sun, A heart now beats, a life's begun,
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It's eighteen hundred and twenty-one, Today a Blackfoot soul is... is born.
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Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You've been a brave man for many years,
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Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there'll be a better tomorrow.
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Your youth is gone, the years have past, Your heart is set, your soul is cast,
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You stand before the council fire, You have the mind and the desire,
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Of notions wise you speak so well, And in brave deeds you do excel.
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It's eighteen hundred and fifty-three, And you stand the chief of confederacy.
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You are the leader, you are the chief, You stand against both the liar and thief.
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They trade braves whiskey, steal your land, And they're coming in swift like the wind-blown sand.
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They shoot the buffalo, kill the game, And send their preachers in to shame.
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It's eighteen hundred and sixty-four and you think of peace, And you think of war.
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Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You've been a brave man for many years,
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Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there'll be a better tomorrow.
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You see the settlers in more numbers. He takes whatever he encounters.
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You've seen the Sioux all battered, beaten, They're all in rags, they haven't eaten.
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The Nez Perce were much the same, It seems like such a heartless game.
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And it's eighteen hundred and seventy-six, And the enemy's full of those death-dealing tricks.
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Today the treaty stands on the table, Will you sign it, are you able?
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It offers food and protection too, Do you really think they'll hold it true?
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It offers a reserve - now isn't that grand? And in return you cede all your land.
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And it's eighteen hundred and seventy-seven,
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And you know the scales are so uneven.
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Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You've been a brave man for many years,
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Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there'll be a better tomorrow.
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Well, the buffalo are slaughtered, There's nothing to eat,
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The Government's late again with the meat.
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Your people are riddled with the white man's disease,
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And in the summer you're sick, And in the winter you freeze.
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And sometimes you wonder why you signed that day, But they broke the treaty themselves anyway.
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And it's eighteen hundred and eighty-nine, And your death star explodes and then it falls.
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Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You've been a brave man for many years,
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Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there'll be a better tomorrow.
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The years have past, the years have flown.
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The nation since has swiftly grown,
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But yet for the Indian it's all the same,
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There's still the hardship,
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There's still the pain,
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There's still the hardship,
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There's still the strife,
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Its bitterness shines like a whetted knife.
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There's still the hypocrisy.
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And still the hate,
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Was that in the treaties, is that our fate?
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We're all unhappy pawns in the Government's game.
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And it's always the Indians who get the blame.
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It's a problem which money can never lessen. And it's nineteen hundred and sixty-seven.
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Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You've been a brave man for many years,
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Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there'll be a better tomorrow.
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Maybe one day you'll find honesty, Instead of the usual treachery.
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Perhaps one day the truth shall prevail. And the warmth of love which it does entail
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Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You've been a brave man for many years,
Bbm F# C# F
Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there'll be a better tomorrow.
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