Where now the huts are empty,
Where never a camp-fire glows,
In an abandoned cañon,
A Gambler's Ghost arose.
He muttered there, "The moon's a sack Of dust." His voice rose thin: "I wish I knew the miner-man.
I'd play, and play to win.
In every game in Cripple-creek Of old, when stakes were high,
I held my own.
Now I would play For that sack in the sky.
The sport would not be ended there. 'Twould rather be begun.
I'd bet my moon against his stars,
And gamble for the sun.
