A poem by Rudyard Kipling

The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the snow,
They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men go.
The People of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight;
They sell their furs to the trading-post; they sell their souls to the white.
The People of the Southern Ice, they trade with the whaler's crew;
Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn and few.
But the People of the Elder Ice, beyond the white man's ken,
Their spears are made of the narwhal-horn, and they are the last of the Men!

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