In days of old, when nights grew cold,
men told a dreadful tale
of Trapper Jim—how they buried him
on a night the wolves did wail.
It seems at the time, Jim was checking his line,
and stopped to camp for the night—
He heard a sound as wolves gathered round
which gave him an awful fright.
His horse and mule were no one’s fool—
they whinnied and brayed at the moon
for they knew their fate, it was much too late,
they would all be devoured soon.
There was nowhere to run in the midnight sun,
escape was the man’s one desire—
Like ghosts in the night, wolves sprang and took flight
as their shadows danced in the fire.
He pulled up his rifle, but nary a trifle
would be left of him there alone—
His friends would find him, the man they called Jim,
just a hank of hair and a bone.
Now, no one can say what happened that day
as the trapper knelt there in the dark,
but men say today, it happened that way,
and the tale is true—not a lark.
And they tell of wolves with cloven hooves
that prowl and chase in a pack,
of forbidden grounds where devilish sounds
are heard if you turn your back.
The story is clear if you’ll just lend an ear
to the tale of Trapper Jim’s fate—
Don’t tramp on his grave, nor pretend to be brave,
or you’ll find it might be too late.