Oh, come to the place where they struck it rich,
Come where the treasure lies hid!
Where your hat full of mud is a five-pound note
And a clod on your heel is a quid!
cho: Klondike! Klondike!
Label your luggage for Klondike.
Oh, there ain't no luck in the town today;
There ain't no work down Moodyville way.
So pack up your traps and be off, I say,
Off and away to the Klondike!
Oh, they scratches the earth and it tumbles out,
More than your hands can hold;
For the hills above and the plains beneath
Are crackin' and bustin' with gold!
From Songs of the Pacific Northwest, Thomas