Where once the Indian’s canoe roamed
o’er the bay,
With silent motion, sped by warrior’s
hand;
The sea gulls wheel and turn in columns
gray,
And on the beach the miners’ cabins
stand;
Now, white-sailed ships sail outward with
the tide,
The stately ocean liners lead the van;
And iron warships anchor side by side,
With sister ships from China and Japan.
Italian fishing boats with lateen sails
go by,
To cast their lines outside the Golden
Gate;
And ferryboats their ceaseless traffic
ply,
From mole to mole, from early morn till
late.
And so the march of commerce takes its
way,
And every clime contributes of its store
Where once the Indian’s tepee held
its sway,
Now stands the Golden City on the shore.