Upon the hillside
Policemen were climbing
The ghosts call the nightwind
Their fantasies to tell
Dark on the snow
Blood drops are drying
Slipped through cold fingers
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 songs

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 nor the new ways
And the poles of their fathers
Are rotting in the rain

Find more similar lyrics on http://mp3lyrics.com/dWcjKla-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 songs

Daylight came late
Over high coastal mountains
The renegade stood watching
With his rifle by his side
Then he emptied his gun
Up into the pale yellow sunrise
And he ran down the hillside
To the 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 songs