The milch cows graze where the brown bear roamed
And a saw mill sings its lay
On a bar in the Yukon River
Where we panned one summer day.
They are raising wheat where the bull moose grazed
In the summers of long ago,
It seems kind of strange when we note the change,
But we’d rather have it so.
* * * * *
Yet, sometimes we dream as we camp at night
In the bend of the river’s flow
Of the land that was, of the land we knew
In the days of the long ago.
The wild free land that bred the men
Who fought with might and main
And took this land from the Devil’s hand,
And we’d like to see it again,
This Land is the orphan kiddie
Of the group with their stars in the Flag,
And it’s looked on Outside as an alien,
Where its treatment makes honest men gag.
It’s treated the same as the harlot
Who barters her body for pelf
And carries it home to her master
And is told to look after herself.
Of course we’re an orphan, adopted
When cast off by the great Russian Bear
And our lot’s been the lot of an orphan
And we’ve had a “stage orphan’s” care.
Our coal land was grabbed by our Uncle,
Our copper and fur by the Jews,
While another gang took all our salmon
And corrupted our natives with booze.
Sam gave us an Army Commission
And told it to build us a Trail,
But all that Sam gave was permission—
He didn’t come thru with the kale.
Now a trail in Alaska costs money
And when Dick tries to get a bill thru
Some jackass from Maine reads the figures
And “moves the amount cut in two.”
Our Uncle Sam owns all the cables,
And the prices he gets are a sin,
It costs more for a word to Seattle
Than it does from Salt Lake to Berlin.
Our coast line is rugged and broken,
A menace to each ship that sails,
But Sam has no money for coast lights,
They get the same treatment as trails.
And Alaska is some husky orphan,
We can reach from the Gulf to B.C.,
We could stand with one foot in Kansas
While the other was washed by the sea.
We’re allowed only one voice in Congress,
And that one bereft of a vote,
And has to get some one’s permission
Ere he loose a protest from his throat.
Sam gave us a group legislative,
But barred them the making of laws,
They could only memorialize Congress
And give it the reasons and cause.
The cry of the world is for Home Rule
Yet imported fools crowd our bench,
And some of their mining decisions
Send up to high Heaven their stench.
Sam made us quit gambling, that’s all right,
But one thing that nobody knows
Is why he allowed a bone head from Georgia
Hang the crepe on our own picture shows.
We’re all hedged about with restrictions
And, Sam, won’t you in us confide
Why some of your damphool ideas
Are not tried out on some one outside?