There where the mighty mountains Bare their fangs unto the moon; There where the sullen sun-dogs glare In the snow-bright, bitter noon, And the glacier-glutted streams sweep down At the clarion call of June. There where the livid tundras keep Their tryst with the tranquil snows; There where the silences are spawned, And the light of hell-fire flows Into the bowl of the midnight sky, Violet, amber and rose. There where the rapids churn and roar, And the ice-floes bellowing run; Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood Rush to the setting sun — I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys, Ere another day is done. * * * * *                 I knew it would call, or soon or late, As it calls the whirring wings; It's the olden lure, it's the golden lure, It's the lure of the timeless things; And to-night, oh, God of the trails untrod, How it whines in my heart-strings! I'm sick to death of your well-groomed gods, Your make believe and your show; I long for a whiff of bacon and beans, A snug shakedown in the snow; A trail to break, and a life at stake, And another bout with the foe. With the raw-ribbed Wild that abhors all life, The Wild that would crush and rend, I have clinched and closed with the naked North, I have learned to defy and defend; Shoulder to shoulder we have fought it out — Yet the Wild must win in the end. I have flouted the Wild; I have followed its lure, Fearless, familiar, alone; By all that the battle means and makes I claim that land for mine own; Yet the Wild must win, and a day will come When I shall be overthrown. Then when as wolf-dogs fight we've fought, The lean wolf-land and I; Fought and bled till the snows are red Under the reeling sky; Even as lean wolf-dog goes down Will I go down and die.

| Deutsche Volkslieder | Ahnenforschung | Ferienaufenthalt | Folksongs | Hymns | Genealogy | Pacific Holiday | HOME PAGE | SEARCH | Email |