A Bunch Of The Boys Were Whooping It Up In The Malamute Saloon;

The Kid That Handles The Music-box Was Hitting A Jag-time Tune;

Back Of The Bar, In A Solo Game, Sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,

And Watching His Luck Was His Light-o'-love, The Lady That's Known As Lou.



When Out Of The Night, Which Was Fifty Below, And Into The Din And The Glare,

There Stumbled A Miner Fresh From The Creeks, Dog-dirty, And Loaded For Bear.

He Looked Like A Man With A Foot In The Grave And Scarcely The Strength Of A Louse,

Yet He Tilted A Poke Of Dust On The Bar, And He Called For Drinks For The House.

There Was None Could Place The Stranger's Face, Though We Searched Ourselves For A Clue;

But We Drank His Health, And The Last To Drink Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.



There's Men That Somehow Just Grip Your Eyes, And Hold Them Hard Like A Spell;

And Such Was He, And He Looked To Me Like A Man Who Had Lived In Hell;

With A Face Most Hair, And The Dreary Stare Of A Dog Whose Day Is Done,

As He Watered The Green Stuff In His Glass, And The Drops Fell One By One.

Then I Got To Figgering Who He Was, And Wondering What He'd Do,

And I Turned My Head -- And There Watching Him Was The Lady That's Known As Lou.



His Eyes Went Rubbering Round The Room, And He Seemed In A Kind Of Daze,

Till At Last That Old Piano Fell In The Way Of His Wandering Gaze.

The Rag-time Kid Was Having A Drink; There Was No One Else On The Stool,

So The Stranger Stumbles Across The Room, And Flops Down There Like A Fool.

In A Buckskin Shirt That Was Glazed With Dirt He Sat, And I Saw Him Sway;

Then He Clutched The Keys With His Talon Hands -- My God! But That Man Could Play.



Were You Ever Out In The Great Alone, When The Moon Was Awful Clear,

And The Icy Mountains Hemmed You In With A Silence You Most Could HEAR;

With Only The Howl Of A Timber Wolf, And You Camped There In The Cold,

A Half-dead Thing In A Stark, Dead World, Clean Mad For The Muck Called Gold;

While High Overhead, Green, Yellow And Red, The North Lights Swept In Bars? --

Th