The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill

The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill
I took a contract to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie,

Whenever, wherever or whatsoever the manner of death he die —

Whether he die in the light o’ day or under the peak-faced moon;

In cabin or dance-hall, camp or dive, mucklucks or patent shoon;

On velvet tundra or virgin peak, by glacier, drift or draw;

In muskeg hollow or canyon gloom, by avalanche, fang or claw;

By battle, murder or sudden wealth, by pestilence, hooch or lead —

I swore on the Book I would follow and look till I found my tombless dead.

For Bill was a dainty kind of cuss, and his mind was mighty sot

On a dinky patch with flowers and grass in a civilized bone-yard lot.

And where he died or how he died, it didn’t matter a damn

So long as he had a grave with frills and a tombstone “epigram”.

So I promised him, and he paid the price in good cheechako coin

(Which the same I blowed in that very night down in the Tenderloin).

Then I painted a three-foot slab of pine: “Here lies poor Bill MacKie”,

And I hung it up on my cabin wall and I waited for Bill to die.

Years passed away, and at last one day came a squaw with a story strange,

Of a long-deserted line of traps ’way back of the Bighorn range;

Of a little hut by the great divide, and a white man stiff and still,

Lying there by his lonesome self, and I figured it must be Bill.

So I thought of the contract I’d made with him, and I took down from the shelf

The swell black box with the silver plate he’d picked out for hisself;

And I packed it full of grub and “hooch”, and I slung it on the sleigh;

Then I harnessed up my team of dogs and was off at dawn of day.

You know what it’s like in the Yukon wild when it’s sixty-nine below;

When the ice-worms wriggle their purple heads through the crust of the pale blue snow;

When the pine-trees crack like little guns in the silence of the wood,

And the icicles hang down like tusks under the parka hood;

When the stove-pipe smoke breaks sudden off, and the sky is weirdly lit,

And the careless feel of a bit of steel burns like a red-hot spit;

When the mercury is a frozen ball, and the frost-fiend stalks to kill —

Well, it was just like that that day when I set out to look for Bill.

Oh, the awful hush that seemed to crush me down on every hand,

As I blundered blind with a trail to find through that blank and bitter land;

Half dazed, half crazed in the winter wild, with its grim heart-breaking woes,

And the ruthless strife for a grip on life that only the sourdough knows!

North by the compass, North I pressed; river and peak and plain

Passed like a dream I slept to lose and I waked to dream again.

River and plain and mighty peak — and who could stand unawed?

As their summits blazed, he could stand undazed at the foot of the throne of God.

North, aye, North, through a land accurst, shunned by the scouring brutes,

And all I heard was my own harsh word and the whine of the malamutes,

Till at last I came to a cabin squat, built in the side of a hill,

And I burst in the door, and there on the floor, frozen to death, lay Bill.

Ice, white ice, like a winding-sheet, sheathing each smoke-grimed wall;

Ice on the stove-pipe, ice on the bed, ice gleaming over all;

Sparkling ice on the dead man’s chest, glittering ice in his hair,

Ice on his fingers, ice in his heart, ice in his glassy stare;

Hard as a log and trussed like a frog, with his arms and legs outspread.

I gazed at the coffin I’d brought for him, and I gazed at the gruesome dead,

And at last I spoke: “Bill liked his joke; but still, goldarn his eyes,

A man had ought to consider his mates in the way he goes and dies.”

Have you ever stood in an Arctic hut in the shadow of the Pole,

With a little coffin six by three and a grief you can’t control?

Have you ever sat by a frozen corpse that looks at you with a grin,

And that seems to say: “You may try all day, but you’ll never jam me in”?

I’m not a man of the quitting kind, but I never felt so blue

As I sat there gazing at that stiff and studying what I’d do.

Then I rose and I kicked off the husky dogs that were nosing round about,

And I lit a roaring fire in the stove, and I started to thaw Bill out.

Well, I thawed and thawed for thirteen days, but it didn’t seem no good;

His arms and legs stuck out like pegs, as if they was made of wood.

Till at last I said: “It ain’t no use — he’s froze too hard to thaw;

He’s obstinate, and he won’t lie straight, so I guess I got to — saw.”

So I sawed off poor Bill’s arms and legs, and I laid him snug and straight

In the little coffin he picked hisself, with the dinky silver plate;

And I came nigh near to shedding a tear as I nailed him safely down;

Then I stowed him away in my Yukon sleigh, and I started back to town.

So I buried him as the contract was in a narrow grave and deep,

And there he’s waiting the Great Clean-up, when the Judgment sluice-heads sweep;

And I smoke my pipe and I meditate in the light of the Midnight Sun,

And sometimes I wonder if they was, the awful things I done.

And as I sit and the parson talks, expounding of the Law,

I often think of poor old Bill — and how hard he was to saw.