IN Schnee der Alpen — so it runs

To those divine accords — and here

We dwell in Alpine snows and suns,

A motley crew, for half the year:

A motley crew, we dwell to taste —

A shivering band in hope and fear —

That sun upon the snowy waste,

That Alpine ether cold and clear.

Up from the laboured plains, and up

From low sea-levels, we arise

To drink of that diviner cup

The rarer air, the clearer skies;

For, as the great, old, godly King

From mankind’s turbid valley cries,

So all we mountain-lovers sing:

I to the hills will lift mine eyes.