A sort of second Daniel Boone,
And bagg'd my share of ev'ry game
From cony, up or down, to coon.

No tawny chieftain's swarthy son,
Was ever fonder of the chase,
Than I was of my trusty gun,
Although I had a paler face.

I shot the squirrel near his den.
The silly rabbit near her lair;
And captured ev'ry now and then,
A pheasant in my cunning snare.

And many things I think of here,
Which time forbids me now to say,
That happen'd in my wild career,
To me, since that eventful day

When my fond mother wash'd my face,
And combed my flaxen hair,
And started me in learning's race,
And breath'd to heav'n a silent prayer,

That I might grow to man's estate,
And cultivate my opening mind;
And not be rich or wise or great,
But gentle, true and good and kind.

My mother's face, I see it yet,