This Is The Law Of The Yukon,

I Like To Think That When I Fall, A Rain-drop In Death's Shoreless Sea, This Shelf Of Books Along The Wall, Beside My Bed, Will Mourn For Me.

Carry On! Carry On! Fight The Good Fight And True; Believe In You Mission, Greet Life With A Cheer.

There's A Race Of Men That Don't Fit In, A Race That Can't Sit Still; So They Break The Hearts Of Kith And Kin, And They Roam The World At Will. They Range The Field And Rove The Flood, And They Climb The Mountain's Crest; Their's Is The Curse Of The Gypsy Blood, And They Don't Know How To Rest.

It's Easy To Fight When Everything's Right And You're Mad With The Thrill And The Glory; It's Easy To Cheer When Victory's Near, And Wallow In Fields That Are Gory. It's A Different Song When Everything's Wrong, When You're Feeling Infernally Mortal; When It's Ten Against One, And Hope There Is None, Buck Up, Little Soldier, And Chortle!

This Is The Law Of The Yukon, That Only The Strong Shall Thrive; That Surely The Weak Shall Perish, And Only The Fit Survive.