The Vigil Of Molly Malone Poem by Lone Dog

Mac Malone, who'd a humble home, was roused
by the news from the North;
Of mounds of dust for which we all lust that the
Klondike creeks spewed forth;
Of nuggets the size that would mesmerize the
staunchest of family men
And steal them away to the muck and the clay
and the wealth it could bring to them.

So Mac Malone, who'd a mind of his own, bade
farewell to the love of his life;
But he did assert, when he hit paydirt, he'd send
for his faithful wife.
Then he booked his way on the 'Frisco Bay' to
the land of the midnight sun;
To the frigid cold and the yellow gold where the
creeks of the Klondike run.

Back at home sat Molly Malone awaiting
the hopeful word -
A word from Mac with those gold-filled sacs that
his dormant greed had stirred;
But the months went by and the northern sky
lapsed into constant night;
And she puzzled why, when the years went by,
her husband did not write.

Now the yellow gold she knew could hold a man
in its evil spell;
'Tis that hateful lust that can turn the just to'rd
the path that leads to Hell;
So Molly Malone left her Frisco home as her
patience wore thread thin,
And she anxiously waited for a word belated in a
room in the Skagway Inn.

Her vigil there, in the room's dank air, was
a rare curiosity.
She persisted so, that she ran out of dough to pay
for the hostelry;
But the kind innkeeper said he'd forgive her for
she seemed such a pitiful sight;
And he said she could stay in room 'Thirty A',
much to her heart's delight.

The years passed by and she'd often cry as she
waited word in her room;
And 'twas often said that she laid in bed and
cursed in the midnight gloom.
Through the frosty glass she could see the Pass
that led to the Klondike's peaks.
Yet ne'er a word had she ever heard from her
husband in the creeks.

And still today, in room 'Thirty A', she awaits
her husband's drawl.
You can see her sneer if you get too near when
you meet her in the hall.
And oft' at night, to the guests' delight, she'll
'round her room rampage,
And rant and rave 'bout a debt unpaid then curse
in a livid rage.

Yet, strangely, I know a 'plot' on a Skagway lot
that would turn you white as a sheet.
'Tis back of a shack near the railroad track off
an old abandoned street.
There, you'll find a 'stone' that I once was
shown near a struggling old jack pine;
And it reads:

'Here Alone
Lies Molly Malone
Died 1899'