Lyrics

The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the snow-- They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men go. The People of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight; They sell their furs to the trading-post; they sell their souls to the white. The People of the Southern Ice, they trade with the whaler's crew; Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn and few. But the People of the Elder Ice, beyond the white man's ken-- Their spears are made of the narwhal-horn, and they are the last of the Men!