THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE

We called him the King of the Klondike; but

He really was “Mac.”

He walked int’ Dawson in tatters an’ rags,

His frozen feet tied in a pair of ol’ bags,

An’ perceeded t’ go on a couple of jags;

Pack on his back.

He worked empty-bellied f'r many a day,

Pore old Mac!

Stuck tight t’ his diggin as if it was play;

With a good game of poker‘ till daylight he'd stay ——

An’ a gun he could han'le. I also might say

He would crack

A fine joke. But he never was known

Was n't Mac.

T’ refuse man‘ r dog a crust‘ r a bone.

He kep’ t’ hisself; perferred livin’ alone ——

An’ ther’ was a sort o’ respectable tone

‘ Bout his shack.

He said of them “girls” that defied Law an’ ban,

( Humpin’ his back ):

“Pore kids! fetched low b’ some skunk of a man ——

Boys, give‘ em a hand-up wheniver y’ can;”

( On the'r‘ count Soapy Smith out of Dawson he ran

With Black Jack! )

He lived like a prince and he spent like a king,

Did old Mac.

Whatever he said‘ r he did had th’ ring

Of pure gold; but one day in th’ spring

Struck a vein in th’ rock that made us all sing,

“‘ Rah f'r Mac!”

But th’ fortin’ he made was th’ fortin’ he spent

In a crack.

Paid all he owed t’ th’ very las’ cent ——

Then, off on a h —— of a spree we all went ——

An’ th’ gold? why, he wasted it, gev’ it an’ lent

B’ th’ sack.

Nex’ mornin’ he woke up as pore as a mouse,

Boozer Mac.

Another chap, who had th’ heart of a louse,

Would a-blow'd off his head‘ r burnt down th’ house,

‘ R int’ th’ river a-taken a souse,

Things goin’ slack.

But he stuck t’ th’ diggin’ like hound t’ th’ trail,

Worn ol’ Mac.

Jes’ like an ol’ farmer a-swingin’ his flail,

Jes’ like ol’ Abe Linco'n a-splittin’ his rail;

D'ye think a MAN like him c'd ever spell f-a-i-l,

‘ R fall back?

No, Sir! He worked till he struck a new vein,

Brave ol’ Mac!

This time he held tight th’ “millionaire” rein;

Swore as he'd never be foolish again;

Then he got drunk. I tell it with pain,—

Scooted back

East. An’ I read in them Papers one day,

Klondike Mac

Had gone t’ them “diggin's” anunder th’ clay;

An’ he was a pauper ag'in! Talk of Play ——

“Life's jes’ a stage!” as Spokshare mought say;

That's a fac’!

Most of‘ em Kings as I've heer'd on went bust,

Jes’ like Mac.

None of‘ em carries the'r crowns int’ dust;—

They sport‘ roun’ a while, but die they all must;—

An’ I do n't know as one of th’ king-bunch I'd trust,

Lookin’ back,

Like th’ King of th’ Klon! Him we knew

As ol’ Mac.

Rulers like him y'll find ther's d —— n few;

Ther's lots of‘ em sportin’ a Crown ai n't true blue.

But Mac? he was royal — a King through an’ through,

An’ no “Jack”!

Up No'th they'll‘ member him an’ things he done

Way back.

We wo n't give his Crown t’ no Son-of-a-gun;

Ther's no entail on Kings t'other side of th’ sun,

An’ pre-ce-dence ther’ will go, ten t’ one,

T’ King Mac!