We started out from Bern one sunny August morn,
There was just the four of us against the Matterhorn.
There was Albert the Australian and John the Irishman,
Me and Bill from Britain, mad dogs in the sun.


Matterhorn, Matterhorn,
Many have tired and many have died to climb the Matterhorn.
That mighty Matterhorn.

Two miles up we lost John and our rations fell below,
Now Al and Bill are lying beneath an avalanche of snow.
Now here I am all alone and I know I cannot stop,
Two more yards in front of me before I reach the top.


Now here I am a dying upon the Matterhorn,
Not a grief or a need of lying or a thing to keep me warm.
The Queen would surely knight me if I could get back down,
But itís closer here to heaven than it is back to the ground.


That mighty Matterhorn.

Submitted by Angela M. Ruley

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