Old bull moose and caribou wink their eyes as I fly through,
Yelling, crying, “Chank! chank! chank!”—
Trappers call me “awful crank!”
Away up where the brook trout gather, away off by the blue St. John;
O’er broiling falls of foaming lather, where splashing jumps the muscallonge,
Where otters mew and spruce grouse flutter, where brown bears dig the honey tree,
That is where I spend the summer, where hunts the “sport” and half-breed Cree.
All men call me Whiskey Jack; I don’t have to tote a pack;
Beady eye and slender tail, I can spy out any trail,