Now the glacier blue they approach with blue noses,
When a yawning crevasse further progress opposes;
Already their troubles begin--here's the rub!
So they halt, and _nem. con._ call aloud for their grub.

From the fountain of pleasure will bitterness spring,
Yet why should the Muse aught but happiness sing?
No! let me the terrible anguish conceal
Of the hero whose guide had forgotten the veal! [1]

Now "all full inside" on the ice they embark:
The moon has gone down, and the morning is dark,
Dreary drizzles the rain, O, deny it who can,
There's no one so blest as the Alpine Club man!

But why should I dwell on their labours at length?
Why sing of their eyelids' astonishing strength?
How they ride up "arêtes" with slow, steady advance,
One leg over Italy, one over France.

Now the summit is gained, the reward of their toil:
So they sit down contentedly water to boil:
Eat and drink, stamp their feet, and keep warm if they can--
O who is so blest as the Alpine Club man?

Now their lips and their hands are of wonderful hue,
And skinless their noses, that 'erst were so blue:
And they find to their cost that high regions agree
With that patient explorer and climber--the flea.