Part 3 (1/2)

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!

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;

My heart leaps up, for I see a form That makes the blood in my veins run warm:

A woman is standing beside my bed, And these are the words, I swear, she said:--

”YOU MAY WANDER AFAR; BUT, GO WHERE YOU WILL, THE GHOSTS OF THE PAST WILL FOLLOW YOU STILL!”

Another comes--a girl-face, worn, And of every good resolution shorn,--