Custer's Last Charge (Song)

Song CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE learned from Robert and Chas. Walker, copied it from the Custer's monument in 1906. The tune is probably been coined from other songs because there don't seem to be any original tunes to the song as far as I know. 
 

Across the Big Horn’s Crystal Tide against the savage Sioux 
A little band of soldiers charged, three hundred boys in blue; 
In front rode blond haired Custer, bold pad ? of the wild frontier, 
A hero of a hundred fights, his deeds known far and near. 
Charge, comrades, charge, there's death ahead, disgrace lurks in our rear; 
Drive? deep, come on, come on, came his yells with ringing cheer, 
And before those heroes charged, there rose an awful yell 
It seemed as {Begin inserted text} {Begin handwritten} {End handwritten} {End inserted text} thought those soldiers stormed the lowest gates of Hell. 
Three hundred rifles rattled forth and torn was human form; 
The black smoke rose in rolling waves above the leaden storm. 
The death groans of the dying braves, their wounded ? piercing cries, 
The hurling of the arrows fleet did? cloud the noonday skies. 
The snorting steeds with shrieks of fright, the firearms deafening roar 
The war song sung by the dying braves who fell to rise no more, 
O'er hill and dale the war song waved round craggy [mountain?] side, 
Along down death's dark valley ran a cruel crimson tide.

Our blond haired chief was everywhere mid showers of hurling lead. 
The starry banner waved above the dying and the dead. 
With bridle rein and firm set teeth; revolver in each hand, 
He hoped with his gallant boys to quell the great Sioux band. 
Again they charged, three thousand guns poured forth and their life sent ball

Three thousand war whoops rent the air, gallant Custer then did fall, 
And all around where Custer fell ran pools and streams of gore; 
Heaped bodies of both red and white whose last great fight was o'er. 
The boys in blue and their savage foe alike lay huddled in one mass, 
Their life's blood ran a trickling through the trampled prarie grass, 
While fiendish yells did rend the air and then a sudden hush, 
While cries of anguish rise again as on the mad Sioux rush. 
O'er those strewn and bloodstained fields those golden redskins fly, 
Our gang went down, three hundred souls, three hundred doomed to die. 
Those blood-drunk braves sprang  on the dead and wounded boys in blue, 
Three hundred bleeding scalps ran high above the fiendish crew. 
Then night came on with sabled veil and hid those sights from view 
The Big Horn's Crytstal Tide  was red as she wound her valleys through 
And quickly from the fields of slain, those gloating redskins fled, 
But blond haired Custer held the field, a hero with his dead.