Classic Poem

There he sits upon his mat,
Balanced bolt upright,
Sitting as afore he sat,
While he saw the light.

But where is the mighty gripe,
Where the hearty blast
Which he used from out his pipe
Spiritwards to cast?

Where is that clear eagle eye,
Which in eager chase
Could the reindeer's track descry,
Through the dew drops trace?

Where those limbs which could not flag,
Toiling through the snow?
Strong he was as antlered stag,
Swift as mountain roe.

Where those arms so strong of yore
The mighty bow to twang?
Life is out: he breathes no more,
His arms all listless hang.

Happy he, for he is gone
Far beyond the snow,
Where the crops, in kindly sun,
Unassisted grow.

Birds in all the bushes trill,
In the woods is game;
Fishes all the waters fill,
Frolicsome and tame.

Now in spirit-land he feeds,
While we linger here
Only to recount his deeds
And prepare his bier.

Come, your farewell presents bring,
Let your dirges plead;
Bury him with everything
He may like or need.

Place the hatchet 'neath his hair
— Hatchet of the strong —
And yon juicy haunch of bear —
For the way is long.

And the keenly tempered blade
Which with dexterous blow
Scalp and skin together flayed
From his whilom foe.

Put a little colour in,
Place it in his hand,
So that he may dye his skin
In the Spirit-land.