1849, Gold Rush, Sutter's mill was the start of it all.
From around the world, many Argonauts came to call.

Heading away to discover the newest gold find.
Their families, homes and businesses left behind.

They scurried through the gorges and passes.
Trailing along, their grub stake loaded on asses.

They followed the rivers, trails and trenches.
Searching all of the bars, banks and benches.

Trying to find the mother lode, or nugget patch.
Conditions harsh, as the ground they did scratch.

On these paths and trails, some of the miners succumbed.
Always an arduous task, their dreams were never shunned.

Those sourdoughs, them who were the toughest.
Crossed Telegraph n Chilcoot being the roughest.

On their way to the Klondike, the biggest strike.
Dawson City being the final aim, to drive a spike.

They were all bitten by fever, the lure of gold.
Hallucinating day and night, of wealth untold.

Old, young, did not matter, once caught, the fever held.
This hunt for wealth, for yellow, they were compelled.

Chasing dreams, some making their mark.
Some giving up with nary more than a bark.

However most got swindled, or robbed of their pay.
Fortunes were made by some having the grit to stay.

Saloon keepers, drunks, all looking for this yellow lure.
Ladies danced and loved taking miners poke's for sure.

The search for this elusive treasure still alive today.
The fever some call a curse, leading minds astray.

Dipping their pans and shovels in the creeks and streams.
Stories from days of old, filling heads overfull with dreams.