With the cold a-grip your gizzard!
And it's, Push for the top of the world, boys!
Oh, the cliffs frown bleak and sullen on the tide of Melville Sound,
Where the glaciers topple roaring to the deep;
And the stately castled bergs in procession sail around,
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!