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 Was n'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 do n'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 ai n'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 wo n'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!
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