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There is a race or a part of a race if you will, of renown prehistoric and vigorous still, who back from their fastnesses scornfully hurled the redoubtable legions that conquered the world. They repelled and they only, the Roman attacks, the stalwart, courageous, impetuous Macs.

When the red bearded pirates - the Saxons and Danes, and Angles came swarming across the sea plains, and the old British stock to exterminate tried, Caledonia and Erin their efforts defied; and the conquering Normans were glad to make tracks, from the Macs and the Micks, who are properly Macs.

Their proud patronymics they rightfully hold, proclaim them descended from heroes of old, illustrious titles that throw in the shade, the dukedoms and earldoms but yesterday made. And even the King with his royalty lacks a lineage as ancient as that of the Macs.

They are old and yet young with a spirit possessed, by the dream of the east and the hope of the west. The earth is their country the race is their kin, in populous cities their guerdon they win, and in gold miner's cabins and lumbermen's shacks, you will find the ubiquitous, venturesome Macs.

Distinguished they've been with the sword and the pen, in pulpit and parliament the leaders of men; prime ministers, presidents, merchants, viziers, they've managed the business of both hemispheres. And the dago day laborers laying the tracks are bossed by the Macs - or the Micks who are Macs.

In this part of the world I may truthfully claim, though a man is a man without "Mac" to his name. From the channel, McClintock explored to the gate; McKenzie thrust open the Mackinaw Straight. From C.B. to B.C. with its mackerel smacks, shine the Macs and the Micks - who are mixed with the Macs.

T’was thought by the ancients that Atlas upbore, the world on his shoulders -- tis thought so no more; Prometheus and Atlas and all of their kith, the Titans are now but a fable, a myth.

The men who are bearing the world on their backs,

Are the Macs and the Micks - who really are Macs.

 - Author Unknown -
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