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.
