Flotsam

The China Coast's a dumping ground  And the South Sea gets its

Of the kind of men that don't make

The kind of man that never could  The men that never care.

A worthless, careless drinking lot  Combed out from between the Poles.

It's gin, and cards, a woman's breath,

Laughter and love and sudden death  And the Devil gets their souls.

It's a throwback to a weaker strain  That's washed by the Tropic tide.

And a mixture of Dago and

Latin and Jew and Portugese  Crops out thru a sun-tanned hide.

But the Northland gets a sterner breed  To fuse in its harder mould.

It's the breed of men that don't know fail;

That's the breed of men that hit the trail  For the fabled land of gold.

They're a sturdy, fearless, fighting lot  And they play the game to win.

They fall for women, wine, the

And win or lose, they smile the same  And to quit is their only sin.

Here the Norsman bunks with the canny Scot  And the lad from the Emerald

Works side by side with Russ and Dane,

North-bred men of brawn and brain,  Men that are worth your while.

So me for the land of the Midnight Sun  With the north lights in the sky,

Me for the land that mothers this

Where you have to fight to hold your place,  Where you can't quit till you die.