Volume 10 — OMAR IN THE KLONDYKE

"This Omar seems a decent chap," said Flapjack Dick one night, When he had read my copy through and then blown out the light. "I ain't much stuck on poetry, because I runs to news, But I appreciates a man that loves his glass of booze. "And Omar here likes a good red wine, although he's pretty mum; On liquors, which is better yet, like whisky, gin, or rum; Perhaps his missus won't allow him things like that to touch, And he doesn't like to own it. Well, I don't blame Omar much. "Then I likes a man what's partial to the ladies, young or old, And Omar seems to seek 'em much as me and you seek gold; I only hope for his sake that his wife don't learn his game Or she'll put a chain on Omar, and that would be a shame. "His language is some florid, but I guess it is the style Of them writer chaps that studies and burns the midnight ile; He tells us he's no chicken; so I guess he knows what's best, And can hold his own with Shakespeare, Waukeen Miller, and the rest. "But I hope he ain't a thinkin' of a trip to this yere camp, For our dancin' girls is ancient, and our liquor's somewhat damp By doctorin' with water, and we ain't got wine at all, Though I had a drop of porter—but that was back last fall. "And he mightn't like our manners, and he mightn't like the smell Which is half the charm of Dawson; and he mightn't live to tell Of the acres of wild roses that grows on every street; And he mightn't like the winter, or he mightn't like the heat. "So I guess it's best for Omar for to stay right where he is, And gallivant with Tottie, or with Flossie, or with Liz; And fill himself with claret, and, although it ain't like beer, I wish he'd send a bottle—just one bottle—to us here."