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!
GHOSTS
Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain,
And frosted the fretwork on window-pane.
The Storm King has laid his icy clasp
On th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp.
The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow
Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow;