Chapter I

At the edge of the uttermost West,
Where the worst may brother the best,
Far, far in the West, behold,
Men said there were pots of the gold:

Obeying an ancient behest,
A cry of the blood in their veins,
Men marched to the uttermost West,
All for gold:
In the sun and the snow and the rains,
They sang and shivered and burned,
Nor faltered at peaks or plains,
All for gold:

And whether men died, or returned
With a tale of their wealth or their woe,
There were always others who yearned
Unceasingly, Westward Ho!