He ain't got much but traps and such, to his name I doubt there's a dime.
He's in from the hills among the frills for only the briefest time.
I see him here but once a year, when he barters all his hides,
Then he's gone back out, I have no doubt. Back over the great divide.
I happen to know this man, although, I don't know where his camp.
But he pays his way and I would say he's an honest sort of scamp.
His name he simply signs an "X", but I think that I know better.
For once did he (I happened to see), was reciting verse and letter.
It was Will Shakespeare or something near, that was his choice oration.
Though sure I'm not, I 'spect he's got, more than a tad's education.
But I can't blame his lack of fame, I must admire the man.
He's got a good life with gun and knife where he lives by his own hand.
His fur is prime and every time he brings it in to sell,
The trader will grin and stroke his chin, and sit to chat a spell.
But X don't like to sit and strike up conversation for too long.
It appears to me he'd rather be hearing the lone wolf's song.
He traps somewhere just north a hair of the Yukon it is said
Though no one knows precisely those trails he's undoubtedly tread.
I speculate its part of the state where greenhorns fear to go.
So far back there's nary a track of another man in the snow.
He carries a pack upon his back; his stride is sure but slow.
He drags a sled with food and bed, behind him in the snow.
If I were to gauge his roundabout age, I guess I'd probably score
Him seventy year, or somewhere near; He ain't a pup no more.
I 'spect one year he'll not appear and our memories soon will fold.
There never was this man, because, he didn't fit the mold.
The mold most had fits good and bad, they'll say he lost his mind.
He just didn't fit 'cause he cared not a whit, for others of his kind.