Luyện nghe bài hát The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill

I took a to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie,
Whenever, wherever or whatsoever the of death he die
Whether he die in the light o' day or under the moon;
In cabin or dance-hall, or dive, mucklucks or patent shoon;
On velvet or virgin peak, by glacier, drift or draw;
In muskeg or canyon gloom, by avalanche, fang or claw;
By battle, murder or sudden wealth, by pestilence, hooch or
I swore on the Book I would and look till I found my tombless dead.

For was a dainty kind of cuss, and his mind was mighty sot
On a dinky patch flowers and grass in a civilized bone-yard lot.
And where he died or how he died, it matter a damn
So long as he had a grave frills and a tombstone "epigram".
So I him, and he paid the price in good cheechako coin
(Which the same I blowed in that very down in the Tenderloin).
Then I painted a three-foot slab of pine: "Here lies poor MacKie",
And I hung it up on my wall and I waited for Bill to die.

Years passed away, and at last one day a squaw with a story strange,
Of a long-deserted line of traps 'way of the Bighorn range;
Of a little hut by the divide, and a white man stiff and still,
Lying there by his lonesome self, and I figured it be Bill.
So I thought of the I'd made with him, and I took down from the shelf
The swell box with the silver plate he'd picked out for hisself;
And I it full of grub and "hooch", and I slung it on the sleigh;
Then I harnessed up my team of and was off at dawn of day.

You know it's like in the Yukon wild when it's sixty-nine below;
When the wriggle their purple heads through the crust of the pale blue snow;
the pine-trees crack like little guns in the silence of the wood,
And the icicles hang down like tusks the parka hood;
the stove-pipe smoke breaks sudden off, and the sky is weirdly lit,
And the careless feel of a bit of burns like a red-hot spit;
When the is a frozen ball, and the frost-fiend stalks to kill
Well, it was just like that day when I set out to look for Bill.

Oh, the awful hush that seemed to me down on every hand,
As I blundered blind with a to find through that blank and bitter land;
Half dazed, half crazed in the wild, with its grim heart-breaking woes,
And the ruthless strife for a grip on life that only the knows!
North by the compass, North I pressed; river and and plain
Passed like a dream I slept to lose and I waked to again.

River and and mighty peak--and who could stand unawed?
As their summits blazed, he could stand undazed at the foot of the of God.
North, aye, North, through a land accurst, shunned by the brutes,
And all I heard was my own harsh word and the of the malamutes,
Till at I came to a cabin squat, built in the side of a hill,
And I in the door, and there on the floor, frozen to death, lay Bill.

Ice, white ice, a winding-sheet, sheathing each smoke-grimed wall;
Ice on the stove-pipe, ice on the bed, ice gleaming all;
Sparkling ice on the dead man's chest, ice in his hair,
Ice on his fingers, ice in his heart, ice in his stare;
Hard as a log and trussed a frog, with his arms and legs outspread.
I 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, his eyes,
A man had ought to his mates in the way he goes and dies."

Have you ever stood in an Arctic hut in the of the Pole,
With a little six by three and a grief you can't control?
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 jam me in"?
I'm not a man of the quitting kind, but I felt so blue
As I sat there gazing at that stiff and studying I'd do.
Then I 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 out.

Well, I thawed and thawed for thirteen days, but it didn't no good;
His arms and legs out like pegs, as if they was made of wood.
Till at last I said: "It no use--he's froze too hard to thaw;
He's obstinate, and he won't lie straight, so I I got to saw."
So I sawed off poor Bill's arms and legs, and I laid him and straight
In the little he picked hisself, with the dinky silver plate;
And I nigh near to shedding a tear as I nailed him safely down;
Then I stowed him away in my sleigh, and I started back to town.

So I buried him as the was in a narrow grave and deep,
And there he's the Great Clean-up, when the Judgment sluice-heads sweep;
And I smoke my pipe and I meditate in the of the Midnight Sun,
And sometimes I wonder if they was, the things I done.
And as I sit and the parson talks, of the Law,
I often think of old Bill--and how hard he was to saw.