Watch/listen to the My Country Tis’ songs. One version is by Buffy Sainte-Marie, an Indigenous Canadian-American artist, and the other version is by Dolly Parton, an American country singer. 
Compare the lyrics (in the article section of Module 5) each use for their song and provide a commentary on patriotic songs and Indigenous history of the United States.
DO NOT FORGET:
Always support your discussion with evidence, examples, and/or quotes. The story of My Country Tis’ of Thee dates back to the year 1831 when Samuel Francis Smith, a 24-year-old Baptist seminary student, was attending the Andover Theological Seminary in Massachusetts.  While working with there, Smith came across a Lutheran hymn called ”God Bless Our Native Land,” which was said to be set to the English melody of ”God Save the King.” Smith was inspired by the song’s connection between faith and patriotism and set out to write an American version, one with different lyrics but the same basic tune. ”My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” was first performed by a children’s choir in Boston, Massachusetts, in July of 1831. The song’s popularity only grew from there, and it quickly became the unofficial national anthem of the United States. The song has had several cover versions done by various artists. Hopefully, you already watched/listened to Buffy Sainte-Marie’s and Dolly Parton’s version in the Module 5 Video section. Below are the lyrics for each.
My Country ‘Tis of thy People You’re Dying© Buffy Sainte-Marie
Now that your big eyes are finally opened.Now that you’re wondering, “How must they feel?”Meaning them that you’ve chased cross America’s movie screens;Now that you’re wondering, “How can it be real?”That the ones you’ve called colorful, noble and proudIn your school propaganda,They starve in their splendour.You asked for our comment, I simply will render:My country ’tis of thy people you’re dying.
Now that the long houses “breed superstition”You force us to send our children awayTo your schools where they’re taught to despise their traditionsForbid them their languages;Then further say that American history really beganWhen Columbus set sail out of Europe and stressThat the nations of leeches who conquered this landWere the biggest, and bravest, and boldest, and best.And yet where in your history books is the taleOf the genocide basic to this country’s birth?Of the preachers who lied?How the Bill of Rights failed?How a nation of patriots returned to their earth?And where will it tell of the Liberty BellAs it rang with a thud over Kinzua mud?Or of brave Unlce Sam in Alaska this year?My country ’tis of thy people you’re dying.
Hear how the bargain was made for West,With her shivering children in zero degrees.“Blankets for your land” – so the treaties attest.Oh well, blankets for land, that’s a bargain indeed.And the blankets were those Uncle Sam had collectedFrom smallpox diseased dying soldiers that day.And the tribes were wiped outAnd the history books censoredA hundred years of your statesmensay, “It’s better this way”.But a few of the conquered have somehow survivedAnd their blood runs the redderThough genes have been paled.From the Grand Canyon’s cavernsTo Craven’s sad hillsThe wounded, the losers, the robbed sing their tale.From Los Angeles County to upstate New York,The white nation fattens while other grow lean.Oh the tricked and evicted they know what I mean:My country ’tis of thy people you’re dying.
The past it just crumbled; the future just threatensOur life blood is shut up in your chemical tanks,And now here you come, bill of sale in your handAnd surprise in your eyes, that we’re lacking in thanksFor the blessings of civilisation you brought usThe lessons you’ve taught us;The ruin you’ve wrought us;Oh see what our trust in America got us.My country ’tis of thy people you’re dying.
Now that the pride of the sires receives charity.Now that we’re harmless and safe behind laws.Now that my life’s to be known as your heritage.Now that even the graves have been robbed.Now that our own chosen way is your novelty.Hands on our heartsWe salute you your victory:Choke on your blue white and scarlet hypocrisy.Pitying your blindness; How you never see –that the eagles of war whose wings lent you glory,Were never no more than buzzards