Where it's eighty below zero, there you'll find the Northland hero,
Red-Jacket; bully Boy he is — sure thing he fills the bill!
In that trackless waste of snow, where the Northern Lights hang low,
He is doing deeds of daring that would make your pulses thrill:—
Red-Jacket does no askin’, but he's ready for th’ taskin’
When they sling him out his orders, with a hunk o’ pemmican;
An’ he'll travel day an’ night after Red-man or bad white,
An’ he'll go through hell-an’ - blazes, BUT HE'LL NEVER MISS HIS MAN!
The spur hitched to his heel — at his hip th’ gleam of steel,—
With his belly-band strapped tighter his hunger to forget,
He may drop upon th’ track BUT YOU BET HE WON'T TURN BACK —
For it's duty, Duty, DUTY! That's Red-Jacket's am-u-let!
Oh, the Arctic wilds are weary, and the Arctic nights are dreary;
And Red-Jacket sometimes wonders why he's livin’ th’ wild life?
Then he eyes th’ British Flag; says: “GOD BLESS YOU, YOU OLD RAG!
It's through courtin’ YOU I've neither child nor wife”!
Now, you folks, do n't get hard thinkin’ when Red-Jacket starts a-drinkin’,
An’ he busts th’ Ten Commandments into five-an’ - twenty bits;
When he hears th’ bugles sound, ai n't he fu'st upon th’ ground?
An’ do n't his “powders” cure‘ em of the'r hell-damnation fits?