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
Wasn'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 don'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 ain'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 won'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!