Oh, the horror of the battle
On the meadows of the uplands!
Forward, by the strength of numbers,
Pressed the Devils of Diablo;
Slowly backward fell the Tamals
To the Stronghold of the Boulders.
When the darkness of the midnight
Fell as a protecting blanket,
Silently my tribe retreated,
Ere the ring should be completed
By the merciless invaders.
All the Tamals started northward -
Men and women, little children -
Through the open, grassy meadows,
Through the forest to the ridges
Circling round the Bay below them.
At the dawning of the morning
They were resting on a hilltop.
To the west the Bay was sleeping
Underneath its misty blanket;
To the east a lake was gleaming
In the rosy light of sunrise.

While they rested on the mountain,
Weary, footsore, and disheartened,
Came pursuing scouts to spy them.
Fierce and bloody was the combat,
All the rocks were stained with crimson.
Then the scouts, or those still living,
Fled to tell their wicked Chieftain