Many Many Moons/Chippewa Flute Song
CHIPPEWA FLUTE SONG
To be chanted softly and monotonously in a high pitch, with a downward inflection at the end of every sentence and at other places where the voice naturally falls.
Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo!
My little Pigeon-Woman,
For you alone as I float in my little birch canoe in the purple twilight,
I am singing, I am calling
on my little cedar lute tenderly.
For you alone, for you alone I am playing
on my little yellow flute mellowly.
And though the singing of my throat is like the grumping of the frog
at night among the water-lilies,
yet the notes from my cedar Beée-hee-gwin
are like silver bubbles in the moonlight.
Therefore why do you hide away from me like the timid little fawn
that peers tremblingly at me
from yonder bending willows,
My little Pigeon-Woman,
My Kah-lée-lee-óh-kah-láy-kway!
My little Pigeon-Woman,
For you alone as I float in my little birch canoe in the purple twilight,
I am singing, I am calling
on my little cedar lute tenderly.
For you alone, for you alone I am playing
on my little yellow flute mellowly.
And though the singing of my throat is like the grumping of the frog
at night among the water-lilies,
yet the notes from my cedar Beée-hee-gwin
are like silver bubbles in the moonlight.
Therefore why do you hide away from me like the timid little fawn
that peers tremblingly at me
from yonder bending willows,
My little Pigeon-Woman,
My Kah-lée-lee-óh-kah-láy-kway!
Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo!
From the clouds of purple twilight on yonder shore
the wailing loon is calling, calling,
calling for his woman drearily.
And I am also calling
on my little yellow flute wearily.
In the dewy glade of yonder valley
the whip-poor-will is crying for his mate;
In the somber lonely shadows of the timber
the melancholy owl is also calling.
But the owl and the whip-poor-will
do not hear an answer
to their many, many callings—
Nor do I hear an answer to my melody.
The meadow-lark is fluting his golden song;
and from the lilied meadows
other golden notes come floating back to him
like little golden bells.
And though the meadow-lark does not sing more tenderly
than my little yellow flute,
you do not answer my callings,
My little Pigeon-Woman,
My Kah-lée-lee-óh-kah-láy-kway!
From the clouds of purple twilight on yonder shore
the wailing loon is calling, calling,
calling for his woman drearily.
And I am also calling
on my little yellow flute wearily.
In the dewy glade of yonder valley
the whip-poor-will is crying for his mate;
In the somber lonely shadows of the timber
the melancholy owl is also calling.
But the owl and the whip-poor-will
do not hear an answer
to their many, many callings—
Nor do I hear an answer to my melody.
The meadow-lark is fluting his golden song;
and from the lilied meadows
other golden notes come floating back to him
like little golden bells.
And though the meadow-lark does not sing more tenderly
than my little yellow flute,
you do not answer my callings,
My little Pigeon-Woman,
My Kah-lée-lee-óh-kah-láy-kway!
Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo!
And now the purple wings of the night
are softly folded down
upon my sleeping little lake,
and the sighing silver balsams.
The cooing wood-dove has slipped her sleepy head
beneath her downy wings;
and the hermit-thrush
with his running-water notes
will pipe his song no longer.
The eyes of the many little stars are peering down
upon me from the sky steadily;
And the wan and sickly moon is smiling yellowly at me—
I do not like the many little peering eyes,
I do not like the smiling yellow moon;
I love the sun that dances down the sky
with a swirl of scarlet robes,
her head flung back over her shoulder,
a taunting smile on her vermilion face. . . .
And now the flutings of my little Bée-bee-gwun avail me no longer;
For you have flown away from me, you have flown away from me
like the sun that slipped down behind the willows
trailing her purple veils behind her
on the shimmering waters of my lake
and over the edge of the world.
But tomorrow the sun will come back to me,
the sun will come back tomorrow,
My little Pigeon-Woman,
My Kah-lée-lee-óh-kah-láy-kway!
And now the purple wings of the night
are softly folded down
upon my sleeping little lake,
and the sighing silver balsams.
The cooing wood-dove has slipped her sleepy head
beneath her downy wings;
and the hermit-thrush
with his running-water notes
will pipe his song no longer.
The eyes of the many little stars are peering down
upon me from the sky steadily;
And the wan and sickly moon is smiling yellowly at me—
I do not like the many little peering eyes,
I do not like the smiling yellow moon;
I love the sun that dances down the sky
with a swirl of scarlet robes,
her head flung back over her shoulder,
a taunting smile on her vermilion face. . . .
And now the flutings of my little Bée-bee-gwun avail me no longer;
For you have flown away from me, you have flown away from me
like the sun that slipped down behind the willows
trailing her purple veils behind her
on the shimmering waters of my lake
and over the edge of the world.
But tomorrow the sun will come back to me,
the sun will come back tomorrow,
My little Pigeon-Woman,
My Kah-lée-lee-óh-kah-láy-kway!