Self-sprung from the ground;

Where with birds each bush is filled,
Where with game the wood;
Where the fish, with joy unstilled,
Wanton in the flood.

With the spirits blest he feeds,--
Leaves us here in gloom;
We can only praise his deeds,
And his corpse entomb.

Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring,
Sound the death-note sad!
Bury with him everything
That can make him glad!

'Neath his head the hatchet hide
That he boldly swung;
And the bear's fat haunch beside,
For the road is long;

And the knife, well sharpened,
That, with slashes three,
Scalp and skin from foeman's head
Tore off skilfully.

And to paint his body, place
Dyes within his hand;
Let him shine with ruddy grace