The Renegade - Ian & Sylvia

Up on the hillside policemen were climbing;

The ghosts of the night wind their fantasies did tell

Dark on the snow, with the blood drops a-drying

Slipped through cold fingers, the whiskey bottle fell

Kla-how-ya, mother, I leave you with your white man

I curse their church that tells us that our fathers were wrong

And I’ll hunt my own mowitch and I’ll drink my own whiskey

And I’ll sing until morning the old fashioned song

Fires of the potlatch are scattered in their ashes

Masache-tamanawis, the evil on remains

And our children cannot follow the old nor th new ways

And the poles of their fathers are rotting in the rain

Kla-how-ya, mother, I leave you with your white man

I curse their church that tells us that our fathers were wrong

And I’ll hunt my own mowitch and I’ll drink my own whiskey

And I’ll sing until morning the old fashioned song

Daylight came late over high coastal mountains

The renegade stood watching, his rifle by his side

Then he emptied his gun up into the pale yellow sunrise

And he ran down the hillside the to place where he died

Kla-how-ya, mother, I leave you with your white man

I curse their church that tells us that our fathers were wrong

And I’ll hunt my own mowitch and I’ll drink my own whiskey

And I’ll sing until morning the old fashioned song