Beside the far famed Yukon stands Hundreds of men from distant lands, All with the same desire Gold, gold’s the watchword, yellow ore, That tempts him from his homestead door, And Oh! alas he nevermore May sit by household fire.

Ah! if men would only toil, Dig and delve their own rich soil, With vigor and with vim; Forth would spring the golden corn, Loud would ring the harvest song, Life and health they would prolong, All through nature’s prime.

Under his own, his fruitful vine, Beneath his laden fig tree green, He, like a king, would reign. Bending low with purple yield, Rivalling fair Eschkol’s fields, He’d a potent influence wield, With his corn and wine.