"Lo, now! Ye shall sing our dread song-line. Like beetles that fall in hot ashes Ye shall perish, ye singers and drummer. But lo! in the lightnings and wind-storms Your beings shall join the beloved. Your breaths, too, shall strengthen the warrior And give power to the voice of the warrior, Bringing peace to the Seed-priests and women. And ye shall be foremost forever Of our Chosen, _the Priests of the Bow_. Lo! The people shall see that we dread not The coming of fire-blasts and thunder With our name-fathers, fiercer than any-- The Storm gods of all the six regions: Hä‘hl´tunk‘ya, Wind God of the North; Ú-heponolo, Wind of the West; Óloma, Wind God of the South; Tsailúhtsanok‘ya--of the East; Saúshuluma, Wind from Above; Saíshiwani, Blast from Below; Unáhsinte, Whirlwind of All! By their breaths and fell power We shall changed be, in being; Made black and mis-shapen; Made stronger with fierceness; Made swifter with hurling; Made crafty with turning; Plunged deep in the waters, And renewed of their vigor; Clad anew with their foam-dress! Yea, the power of the weapons The Sun-father gave us And the Foam-mother made us, That ye be led upward, Shall multiplied be In the means of destruction For the hands of our children, Ye Priests of the Bow, That men be kept living! But to rock, age-enduring, Grouped in song for our chosen, O, drummer and singers! Ye shall changed be forever! The foot-rests of eagles And signs of our order!"