Lirik Lagu The Ballad Of Blasphemous Bill - Hank Snow
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I took a contract to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie,Whenever, wherever or whatsoever the manner of death he dieWhether 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 leadI 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 sotOn 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 damnSo 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 shelfThe 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,
For Bill was a dainty kind of cuss, and his mind was mighty sotOn 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 damnSo 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 shelfThe 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,
