In Jamestown’s old days, where the settlers did dwell,
Lived Pocahontas, a playful one, you can surely tell.
With her long, flowing hair and a twinkle in her eye,
She roamed through the forest under the wide sky.

Matoaka, her name, as her people well knew,
But Pocahontas was the name that most of us do.
She’d visit the fort and make the boys play,
Turning somersaults in her own special way.

She’d dance in the village, with laughter and grace,
Making the kids tumble in a wild, playful chase.
She’d wheel and she’d spin, her heart full of glee,
A joyful young spirit, so wild and so free.

By the riverside, her laughter would ring,
As she danced with the butterflies and taught the frogs to sing.
Through meadows and forests, her footsteps would trace,
A child of the land, with a bright, beaming face.

With each passing season, her love for life grew,
In the heart of the wilderness, her spirit she’d strew.
A bond with the land that would forever endure,
Matoaka, a child of nature, so genuine and pure.

As she grew older, her heart stayed the same,
Innocence and kindness were her claim to fame.
A guardian of nature, her spirit ran deep,
Amonute, the child of the woods, a secret she’d keep.

When hunger struck Jamestown, and times grew quite dire,
Pocahontas brought food to put out hunger’s fire.
With a heart full of kindness and a spirit so brave,
She helped those in need, their lives to save.

But once came a day, filled with strife and despair,
When she was captured, it didn’t seem fair.
Held for ransom, she stayed strong and true,
Finding faith in a new path, to Christianity she’d pursue.

Baptized as Rebecca, with her spirit unchanged,
In her heart, Matoaka forever remained.
John Smith, once a friend, traveled far and away,
Leaving Pocahontas to wonder, believing he’d passed away.

In April, John Rolfe stole her heart in the spring,
As wedding bells rang, a new song did they sing.
A son they would bear, young Thomas his name,
In their hearts, a forever-forged flame.

To London they journeyed, her fame did grow,
A “civilized savage,” her spirit did glow.
In the Queen’s grand palace, a masque she’d attend,
A true international star, on her fame we depend.

In London, she met Smith, her old friend so dear,
In a moment, her demeanor turned quite austere.
With words both enigmatic and fragmentary too,
She reminded him of the kindness they once knew.

“You promised Powhatan, what’s yours would be his,
In turn, he’d share all that he could give.
So I shall call you ‘father,’ this I’ll decree,
And forever, dear John, your countryman I’ll be.”

In Gravesend’s quiet town, where the river does flow,
A tale of young Pocahontas, we now come to know.
In March of that year, she fell gravely ill,
A sickness unknown, a moment of chill.

Beside the River Thames, they brought her to land,
Her strength slowly waning, held by love’s gentle hand.
Though fate was unkind, and the end drew near,
Pocahontas, beloved, showed no sign of fear.

With a child to live on, her legacy’s thread,
Pocahontas took her final breath in her bed.
On that March day in seventeen-seventeen,
Her earthly journey ended, her soul serene.

In St. George’s Church parish, with solemn grace,
They laid her to rest in that hallowed place.
Her grave remains hidden, a secret in time,
But her memory and spirit will forever climb.