The Land of Tomorrow

by William B. Stephenson

THE SONG OF THE INNUIT

O, we are the Innuit people,
Who scatter 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 spouting blood
Reddens the level snow.

O, we are the Innuit people,
Who flock to the broken rim
Of the Arctic pack where the walrus lie
In the polar twilight dim.
Far from the shore their surly roar
Rises above the whirl
Of the eager wave, as the Innuit brave
Their flying lances hurl.

O, 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 southland tame
To the glorious Arctic day.

There is one sits by in silence
With terror in her eyes,
For she hears in dreams the piteous screams
Of a cast-out babe that dies—
Dies in the snow as the keen winds blow
And the shrieking northers come,—
On that dreadful day when the starving lay
Alone in her empty home.

O, we are the Innuit people,
And we lie secure and warm
Where the ghostly folk of the Nunatak
Can never do us harm.
Under the stretching walrus hide
Where at the evening meal
The well-filled bowl cheers every soul
Heaped high with steaming seal.

The Awful Folk of the Nunatak
Come down in the hail and the snow,
And slash the skin of the kayak thin
To work the hunter woe.
They steal the fish from the next day's dish
And rot the walrus lines—
But they fade away with the dawning day
As the light of summer shines.

O, we are the Innuit people
Of the long, bright Arctic day,
When the whalers come and the poppies bloom
And the ice-floe shrinks away;
Afar in the buoyant umiak
We feather our paddle blades
And laugh in the light of the sunshine bright,
Where the white man's schooner trades.

O, we are the Innuit people
Rosy and brown and gay;
And we shout as we sing of the wrestling ring
Or toss the ball at play.
In frolic chase we oft embrace
The waist of a giggling maid
As she runs on the sand of the Arctic strand
Where the ice-bears bones are laid.

O, we are the Innuit people,
Content in our northern home;
Where the kayak's prow cuts the curling brow
Of the breakers snowy foam.
The merry Innuit people,
Of the cold, gray Arctic sea,
Where the breathing whale, the Aurora pale
And the snow-white foxes be.