Woods and fields to hunt and plant,
 Rivers, ponds and lakes to fish,
Water pure and fertile soil.
 Everything that they could wish.

So they settled on this land,
 And they called it Natick Towne,
"Place of Searching", "Place of Hills."
 A spot that they could call their own.

Did a squaw walk where I walk now?
 Did a deer run through my yard?
Was a hunter close behind it,
 Cautious, stealthy and on guard?

Do I swim now in the waters
 Where canoes sped swiftly by,
And the children laughing, splashing
 Under mother's watchful eye?

Did they sometimes, in their wigwams,
 Muse about who'd be around,
When they went to join their fathers
 In the mighty hunting ground?

Each succeeding generation
 Lives its brief life on this earth,
Stopping here for just a short while,
 Living, loving, giving birth.

When we've acted out our drama,
 As did those ancient squaws and braves,
We too will pass along like shadows
 And lay to rest within our graves.