Wanderers,
By James Hebbeth Waite As I rode in the early dawn,
While stars were fading white,
I saw a pawn,
A grassy slope,
A campfire burning bright,
With tent behind and blaze before,
Three loggers in a row,
Sang altogether joyously,
Pull up the stakes and go.
As I rode on by eagle-hawk,
The wide blue deep of air,
The wind through the glittering leaves,
The flowers so sweet and fair,
The thunder of the rude salt waves,
The creeks soft overflow,
All joined in chorus to the words,
Pull up the stakes and go.
Now by the tent,
On forest skirt,
By odor of the earth,
By sight and scent of morning smoke,
By evening campfire's mirth,
By deep sea call and foaming green,
By new stars gleam and glow,
By summer trails and antique lands,
Pull up the stakes and go.
The world is wide and we are young,
The sounding marches beat,
In passion pipes her sweetest call,
In lane and field and street.
So rouse the chorus,
Brothers all,
Will something have to show,
When death comes round and strikes our tent,
Pull up the stakes and go.