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.