For we’re clawing for home with the treasures
we’ve mined.
We’ve no sort of use for the pick and the sluice;
Our Klondike has been the straight trunks of
the spruce.
Let them that elect grub the dirt for a “gleam,”
Our ore is the gum and our lode is the seam
That doesn’t go sneaking in mire and clay,
But grins at the sun and drinks deep of broad day.
Go grope for your gold in the bowels of mud!