Flotsam

The China Coast's a dumping ground

  And the South Sea gets its share

Of the kind of men that don't make good

The kind of man that never could

  The men that never care.

A worthless, careless drinking lot

  Combed out from between the Poles.

It's gin, and cards, a woman's breath,

Laughter and love and sudden death

  And the Devil gets their souls.

It's a throwback to a weaker strain

  That's washed by the Tropic tide.

And a mixture of Dago and Japanese

Latin and Jew and Portugese

  Crops out thru a sun-tanned hide.

But the Northland gets a sterner breed

  To fuse in its harder mould.

It's the breed of men that don't know fail;

That's the breed of men that hit the trail

  For the fabled land of gold.

They're a sturdy, fearless, fighting lot

  And they play the game to win.

They fall for women, wine, the game

And win or lose, they smile the same

  And to quit is their only sin.

Here the Norsman bunks with the canny Scot

  And the lad from the Emerald Isle

Works side by side with Russ and Dane,

North-bred men of brawn and brain,

  Men that are worth your while.

So me for the land of the Midnight Sun

  With the north lights in the sky,

Me for the land that mothers this race

Where you have to fight to hold your place,

  Where you can't quit till you die.