So hot shine the sunbeams the Nile waters o'er,
And palm-trees there give not a shadow more;
Then longing for fatherland urges us forward,
Our troops then forgather: To nor'ward, to nor'ward.
And deep underfoot then we see like a grave
The green-growing earth and the blue-coloured wave,
Where fresh stir and tempest to each day is given,
While we fare so free 'mid the cloudlets of heaven.
Far off amid mountains, a meadow is there,
Where lighteth our flock, where our bed we prepare.
Our eggs in the chilly pole's regions we lay there,
And hatch out our brood in the midnight sun's ray there.
On our peaceful valley no fowlet can chance.
The gold-wingéd elf-people hold there their dance;
The green-mantled wood-nymphs at even are lurking.
And dwarfs in the mountains the red gold are working.
His stand on the mountains Vindevale's son takes;
His snow-covered wings with an uproar he shakes.
Hares whiten; the quicken with berries is smothered;
Our troops then forgather: To southward, to southward.
To green-growing fields, to a temperate main,
To shade-giving palm-trees our mind turns again.
There rest we ourselves from our airy flight forward;
There long we again for our world to the nor'ward.