When the women folk sit, by their fires fresh lit,
Oh, ho, for the toque of red!
With our strong arms bare, it's little we care
For politics, rates, or tax;
Let the good steel ring on the forest king—
Oh, ho, for the swing of the axe!
Your diamonds may glitter, your rubies flame,
Our gems are but frozen dew;
Yet yours grow tame, being always the same,
Ours every night will renew.