Through the gorge of snow we go,
Tracking, tramping soft and slow,
With our paws and sheathed claws,
So we swing along the snow,
Crowding, crouching to your pipes-
Shining serpents! Well you know,
When your lips shall cease to blow
Airs that lure us through the snow,
We shall fall upon your race
Who do wear a different face.
Who were spared in yonder vale?
Not a man to tell the tale!
Blow, blow, serpent pipes,
Slow we follow:-all our troop-
Every wolf of wooded France,
Down from all the Pyrenees-
Shall they follow, follow you,
In your dreadful music-trance?
Mark it by our tramping paws,
Hidden fangs, and sheathed claws?
You have seen the robber bands
Tear men's tongues and cut their hands,
For ransom-we ask none-begone,
For the tramping of our paws,
Marking all your music's laws,
Numbs the lust of ear and eye;
Or-let us go beneath the snow,
And silent die-as wolves should die!