A young Indian mother with anxious eyes
Sat by a cradle 'neath sullen skies
Her warrior hunter had not returned
But bravely to her babe she turned
High flies the goose my little papuss
The bright apple falls from the bough
The trembling leaf knows the north wind's a thief
But you will sleep somehow, somehow
But you will sleep somehow
So a knife she drew from her tattered shawl
Watched the brown-eyed child clutch a sheep-skinned doll
The wolves would make certain that he didn't know
If he ever returned, they would lie 'neath the snow
Then fate on the wind a hi-ey-o
A criss-cross of burrows patient and slow
Her warrior husband had at last returned
There was food, there were furs to the babe she turned
High flies the goose my little papuss
The bright apple falls from the bough
The trembling leaf knows the north wind's a thief
But you will sleep somehow, somehow
But you will sleep somehow