If ye run up ag'in Carnegie, I'd kind o’ thankful be
If he gets a-talkin’ of heroes, you'd ring in Sandy McPhee.
Now, Mac do n't want no medals — he ai n't th’ braggin’ set;
But what he done back in eighty-one, he's livin’ t’ tell; you bet!
We was trekin’ th’ trail t’ Forty-Mile; sleepin’ in snow-b'ilt caves,
An’ the great White Trail we hoofed it on was milestoned jest by graves.
Mac shot on ahead with his dog — itchin’ t’ make his pile;
Carried his grub-stake on his back. Got there? I should smile!
But th’ blizzard struck him; th'r he was, him an’ his dog alone ——
A week passed by — then his grub give out; but he never made no moan.
His husky died an’ he e't his guts; tho't his brain‘ ud go ——
Then he‘ member'd his wife an’ kids at home. Who'd hoe their row?
Both feet fruz cle'r int’ th’ bone! Says he “Fac's is fac's”;—
Gangrene sot in — black t’ th’ knees. Then he ups an’ eyes his axe:—
“I ai n't,” says he, “no great M. D., but I kinder calcalate
To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b’ a unkind Fate.”