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!