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 Dedicated to tlie Calamity Howler 
 
 19oc 
 
 MA 
 
 IT D. WOOSTER TAYLOR 
 
 HETHER you ride on a Union Bus 
 Or sit in a streetcar sea*-. 
 Whether you argue and fuss and cuss 
 And bet that Calhoun gets beat, 
 Or whether you walk and fume and talk 
 And hope that they both go down, 
 Remember the dust that youVe kicked and cussed 
 Is the dust of Frisco Town. 
 
 The dust of Frisco Town, say. man, 
 
 Do you know what that dust is worth? 
 
 It's full of the life and soul and sand 
 
 Of the Best Little Town on Earth. 
 
 It's full of the blood and bone and brick 
 
 Of the men who stood staunch in her fall; 
 
 And despite every kick, that courage will stick, 
 
 For there's grit in that dust, that's all. 
 
 So whether you wander along Van Ness 
 
 And listen to tales of woe, 
 
 Or shuffle your feet up Fillmore Street 
 
 And grumble that times are slow, 
 
 Or whether you wait on Golden Gate 
 
 For an auto to take you down, 
 
 Just get this fact straight before it's too late, 
 
 That you're on the bum, not the town. 
 
 You're the curse of Frisco Town, my man. 
 
 Do you know what a pessimist's worth? 
 
 He's full of the slush and milk and mush 
 
 Of the laziest man on earth. 
 
 Get busy and work and walk and sweat, 
 
 Don't whimper and fume and frown; 
 
 Union man, scab or Greek, you can get what you seek 
 
 In the dust of Frisco Town. 
 
 So whether you swing on a wind-blown beam, 
 
 With the smart of the dust in your eyes, 
 
 Where the piledrivers steam, and the hoist-engines scream 
 
 And the derricks sweep up to the skies; 
 
 Or whether you crawl on the tottering wall 
 
 Of a building that's blistered and brown, 
 
 Swear some if you must, but don't give up your trust 
 
 In the dust of Frisco Town. 
 
 The dust of Frisco Town, say man 
 
 Do you know how that dust was made? 
 
 It was ground from the sand of that pioneer band 
 
 Whose memory never will fade. 
 
 It is made frcm the pluck and the dare-devil luck 
 
 Of those Argonaut miners of old. 
 
 So don't cry till you're hurt, it's no every-day dirt, 
 
 It's dust — but it's dust of gold. 
 
 COPYtlGHTfD S» W TAYLOR 
 
 PUBllfHeO BY PAUL ELDER » COMPANY 
 
 
 
 
 r% « i'Ti .< «o O 
 
SYRACUSE, - MY. 
 
 PAT. JAN. 21, I90S 
 
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