And the howling wind swings wider in its sweep.
And the dogs' heads now are drooping at the telling, killing pace,
And our breath comes hard and frozen on the gale.
Lord! it's never stop or listen but it's buckle to the race!
For we're men, red-blooded men, who break the trail.
And the dogs' heads now are drooping at the telling, killing pace,
And our breath comes hard and frozen on the gale.
Lord! it's never stop or listen but it's buckle to the race!
For we're men, red-blooded men, who break the trail.
There's a white bear at the headland; there's a walrus on the floe;
And the seals lie shining sleek beneath the sun.
There's a monster blubber whale—God! you see him slosh and blow!—
And there's hunger at the trigger of your gun.
And the death-bolt, through the silence of the still, ghost-sheeted air,
Leaps forth in sudden burst of lurid flame.
Ho! there's meat for them that take it—for dog and you a share.
Ye are men, red-blooded men, who play the game.
And the seals lie shining sleek beneath the sun.
There's a monster blubber whale—God! you see him slosh and blow!—
And there's hunger at the trigger of your gun.
And the death-bolt, through the silence of the still, ghost-sheeted air,
Leaps forth in sudden burst of lurid flame.
Ho! there's meat for them that take it—for dog and you a share.
Ye are men, red-blooded men, who play the game.
And it's, Lash your team of huskies!
And it's, Lift the sled along!
And it's, Climb the frozen hummocks where the wind is biting strong!
And it's, Fight your way through blizzard
With the cold a-grip your gizzard!
And it's, Push for the top of the world, boys!
And it's, Lift the sled along!
And it's, Climb the frozen hummocks where the wind is biting strong!
And it's, Fight your way through blizzard
With the cold a-grip your gizzard!
And it's, Push for the top of the world, boys!
Andrew F. Underhill. By permission of the Outing Magazine.
