And the Man from the West is off, while yet they are sleeping in Nome!
Off, ere the low-browed dawn, with Eskimo, sledge, and team:
He is leaving the tundra behind, he is climbing the source of the stream!
On, beyond Sinrock—on, while the miles and the dim hours glide—
On, toward the evergreen belt that darkens the mountain side!
’Tis a hundred miles or more; but his team is strong, is swift,
And brief are his slumbers at night, in the lee of the feathery drift!
There were watchful eyes, there were anxious hearts in the city of Nome;
And they cheered with a will when the Man from the West with his prize came home!