The Song of the Mouth-Organ
I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone;

The Trail of Ninety-Eight
Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools.

The Ballad of Gum-Boot Ben
He was an old prospector with a vision bleared and dim.

Clancy of the Mounted Police
In the little Crimson Manual it's written plain and clear

Lost
"Black is the sky, but the land is white--

L'Envoi
We talked of yesteryears, of trails and treasure,

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To the Man of the High North



My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming