In the land of the Qua-To-Mah long before the pale faces came
There lived an ancient people who were proud fierce and brave
Happily they fished and hunted in prime-evil forests evergreen
That grew to the singing shores of a mighty ocean, frothy, clear and clean.

Gone are the giant fir forests and its handsome natives within.
They were sent to distant sands that held not the spirits of these Indians.
Autumn through summer they're no more. For what's left of these native bands
Are barren howling hills and shores and the keening of the Harp-of-the-Winds.

On the last warm winds of summer braves fly south on feathered feet.
Heeding the call of their ancestors' beat-beat-beat.
Soaring and gliding like tree-men along boughs bouncing in the breeze
Their hearts hum-humming with wind harp strumming spirits of the trees.

Oh-ee-ay-ee-ay-ee-oh-oh-ee-ay-ee-ay. Heh.