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Jez Lowe and The Bad Pennies
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Son of the Indian Lass
I once sang a song called 'The Indian Lass', and none ever suited me better,
It told of a traveller in fair New Orleans, and the Indian girl that he met there,
And though the sadness of parting came hard at the end, the tune made it sound all the sweeter.
Yes, I once sang a song called 'The Indian Lass', but 1 never once thought that I'd meet her.
I was working a bar singing songs of the north, in a place called The Inn on The River,
And I sang them the song of the Indian Lass, and I caught a reflection in a cracked bar-room glass,
And I finished the song with a shiver.
And there she was next to me, smelling of rain, she asked of my song and my story,
And I found myself rambling ever and on, like a bird in display of its glory.
Her skin was the stain of a New England leaf, her hair was as black as blueberry,
And as long as the river that flowed on beneath, In shadows and pools 'round her body,
And I found myself swimming in those
Still water reeds, and fumbling under covers with the lights out,
As I lay there in love and inside her at night, as those fingers so red gripped those shoulders so white,
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And a song in my head sang its heart out.
And it wasn't 'til late on the turnpike at night as I drove with her head on my shoulder,
With the road stretching on like a trail full of
tears, and the thin mountain air growing colder,
That she told me the stories that once were just known to the tribes and the seers of her nation,
How a plague of white skin destroyed all in its path,
How hard steel and lead sentenced skin, bone and staff, to a place that she called The Damnation.
And one morning in Maine, as I sent money home, she left in the hardest of weather,
With never a note, just some stones on a string, one for each day spent together,
I could've gone after her, begged her to stay, but I thought it was best if I left it,
'Cos I once sang a song called 'The Indian Lass', and I knew the way that it ended.
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