The Lament of the Old Sour Dough
We found there broad beaches of ruby
And mountains with placers and leads;
But all save the sky was pre-empted
By salt-water sailors and Swedes.
Then we climbed the cold creeks near a mission
That is run by an agent of God,
Who trades Bibles and prayer-books to heathens
For ivory, sealskins, and cod.
At last we were sure we had struck it,
But alas! for our hope of reward—
The landscape from seabeach to sky-line
Was staked in the name of the Lord!
We're too slow for the new breed of miners,
Embracing all classes of men.
Who locate by power of attorney
And prospect their claims with a pen;
Who do all of their fine work through agents
And loaf around town with the sports,
On intimate terms with the lawyers.
On similar terms with the courts.
We're scared to submission and silence
By the men the Government sends
To force us to keep law and order,
While they keep claims for their friends,
And collect in an indirect manner
An exceedingly burdensome tax—
Assumed for a time by the traders.
And then transferred to our backs.
We had some hard knocks on the Klondike
From the Cub-lion's unpadded paws,
And suffered some shocks from high license
And other immutable laws;
But they robbed us by regular schedule.
So we knew just what to expect.
While at Nome we're scheduled to struggle
Until we're financially wrecked.
I'm sick of the scream of the Eagle
And laws of dishonest design,
And Fm going in quest of a country
Where a miner can locate a mine;
So when I have rustled an outfit
These places will know me no more.
For I'll try my luck with the Russians
On the bleak Siberian shore.
