Oh, we are the Innuit people,
  Who [?] about the floe,
And watch for the puff of the breathing seal
  While the whistling breezes blow.
By a silent stroke the ice is broke,
  And the struggling prey below
With the crimson flood of its sporting blood
  Reddens the level snow.

Oh we are th Innuit people,   Who flock to the broken rim
Of the Arctic flow, where the walrus lies
  In the Polar twilight dim.
Far from the shore their surly roar
  Rises above the whirl
Of the easy waves, as the Innuit braves
  their flying [?] hurl.

Oh, we are the Innuit people   Who lie in the topek warm
While the northern blast flies strong and fast
  And fiercely roars the storm;
Recounting the ancient legends
  Of fighting, hunting, and play
When our ancestors came from the south and tame
  To the glorious arctic day.

There is one sits by in silence,
  With terrors in her eyes,
She hears in dreams the feedle screams
  As her cast-out infant dies.
Cries in the snow as the keen winds blow
  And the shrieking northers come
of the dreadful day where she staring lay
  Alone in her empty home.