Two hunters near to Hudson Bay,
Their names John Grant and Tom McKay,
Their skill and courage naught could daunt,
The boldest one perhaps was Grant.
The winter was their busy time,
When all was snow and frost and rime,
It paid best then to pull trigger,
For then furs were better thicker.
While setting trap Grant cut through boot
And quick the blood gushed from his foot,
The horrid scene, now who can paint,
For loss of blood soon makes him faint.
But his kind partner Tom McKay
The rush of blood he tried to stay,
And when its flow did somewhat slack
He carried him upon his back.
As homeward he doth slowly go,
A track of blood is o'er the snow,
But long and weary is the way
And soon exhausted is McKay.
He feels assistance he doth want,
For to rescue his dear friend Grant,
He stood him up against a tree
While the blood yet flowed quite free.
Now wolves had visited the trap
And blood from snow they eager lap,
Then tracked poor Grant, for on the snow
The blood in heavy drops did flow.
He soon got help, then John McKay
Doth hurry back without delay,
And what a sight then met their gaze
Filled them with horror and amaze.
The sight their minds will ever haunt,
Mangled by wolves was their friend Grant,
But round him several wolves were slain
With bullet holes right through their brain.
For he had fought hard for his life,
And some he slew with hunting knife,
And he is still quite surrounded,
While fierce brutes are badly wounded.
Now clubs doth soon dash out their brains
And then they gather Grant's remains,
They cut two saplings both same size,
With twigs they lace them acrosswise.
So it then made for the poor dead
A good soft and pliable bed,
Now to his home remains they bear,
Where his poor wife is in despair.