Songs of a Sourdough By Robert William Service THE LAW OF THE YUKON This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain: "Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane.Strong for the red rage of battle; sane, for I harry them sore;Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core;Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat, Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat.Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones;Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons;Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat;But the others-the misfits, the failures-I trample under my feet.Dissolute, damned, and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters-Go! take back your spawn again. "Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway;From my ruthless throne I have ruled alone for a million years and a day;Hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come: Till he swept like a turbid torrent, and after him swept-the scum.The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen, One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was-Men.One by one I dismayed them, frighting them sore with my glooms;One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms.Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains, Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins;Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight, Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night;Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow, Frozen stiff in the ice pack, brittle and bent like a bow;Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight, Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white;Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair, Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer;Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam;Writing a cheque for a million, drivelling feebly of home;Lost like a louse in the burning ... or else in tented townSeeking a drunkard's solace, sinking and sinking down;Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world, Lost 'mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled;In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare, Its gambling dens a-riot, its gramophones all a-blare;Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled with lies, In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight skies.Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive, Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive. "But the others, the men of my mettle, the men who would 'stablish my fame, Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honour, not shame;Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go, Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow;Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks, Them will I take to my bosom, We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching experience.