THE RENEGADE
Ian Tyson

Upon the hillside
Policemen were climbing
The ghost called the nightwind
Her fancy to tell
Dark on the slope
Blood drops are drying
Slipped through cold fingers
The whiskey bottle fell

Ha-how-ya mother
I leave you with your whiteman
I curse their church that tells us
That our fathers were wrong
And I'll hunt my own knowledge
And I'll drink my own whiskey
And I'll sing until morning
The old-fashioned song

Fires of the potlatch
Are all scattered in their ashes
Ma-sat-chie-ta-ma now is
The evil ones remain
And our children cannot follow
The old northern ways
And the bones of their fathers
Are rotting in the rain

Ha-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 knowledge
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
With his rifle by his side
And he emptied his gun
Up into the yellow sunrise
And he ran down the hillside
To the place where he died

Ha-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 knowledge
And I'll drink my own whiskey
And I'll sing until morning
The old-fashioned song





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