A Yukon Tale . . .

 

Miles from God’s own county, three Yorkshire men were Yukon bound,

To sift through silt and clinging mud for riches from the Klondike ground.

With frozen feet and aching backs through ice and snow and sleet and rain,

determined to get rich - or die, they panned the Yukon grain by grain.

And grain by grain they built a hoard, of gold dust stored in canvas sacks

- but envious eyes had seen their pile and plotted theft behind their backs.

A Welshman, Irishman and Scot – a trio of the foulest breed,

slit all their sacks and stole the ore, driven on by green-eyed greed.

Our poor tykes toiled both day and night, they sweated blood – but all in vain

For every time their sacks were filled the heartless villains struck again.

Losing hope at rising loss our trio pondered – should they quit?

Until Big John from Leeds piped up “Nowt o’t sort we just need t’kit!

A grand big chest wi’ locks and chains fo’t keep owd nuggets safe by day,

 Ah’ve seen un yonder i’ Whitehorse, Ah’ll nip and gerrit reet away!”

So John set off  - no easy trip, a journey of at least a week

Through mountains, forest and ravines, stinking bog and swollen creek.

While John boy trekked out in the wilds his brothers back at camp worked on

And worried at his safe return - when pretty soon two weeks had gone.

Thoughts of vultures, grizzlies, wolves  Indians with a thirst for blood

 - had Big John met a lonely death by avalanche or thirst or flood?

A month soon passed – no sign of John, our boys were lost, their spirits down,

Until the day a tired man with heavy load came limping slowly into town.

His hair was long with shaggy beard, his clothes in rags on bloodied breast

- but on his face he wore a smile – and on his back he bore – a chest!

Open mouthed they dropped their tools, in disbelief at John’s great feat,

while Big John laughed and shouted out, “Git th’kettle on – ah’m proper beat!

We’ve cracked it lads, ah’ve brought yon chest, we’re saved from th’ Taffys, Micks and th’ Jocks,

We’ll graft and save and soon be rich, no problem . . .

 

 

(wait for it)

 

 

 

 

 

 

(a little longer)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(you know what’s coming don’t you?)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(ready?)

 

 

 

 

 . . . now th’panned ore ‘as box!”

 

 

I can hear your groans from here! Did you really think of taking this seriously?

 OK, OK I’m going! (slinks off stage to receding boos and catcalls . . .)