Just Draw On Your Grit; It's So

There's A Race Of Men That Don't Fit In, A Race That Can't Sit Still; So They Break The Hearts Of Kith And Kin, And They Roam The World At Will. They Range The Field And Rove The Flood, And They Climb The Mountain's Crest; Their's Is The Curse Of The Gypsy Blood, And They Don't Know How To Rest.

I Remember Little Of The Yukon Or What I Wrote There.

Now A Promise Made Is A Debt Unpaid, And The Trail Has Its Own Stern Code.

I Like To Think That When I Fall, A Rain-drop In Death's Shoreless Sea, This Shelf Of Books Along The Wall, Beside My Bed, Will Mourn For Me.

It Isn't The Mountain Ahead That Wears You Out; It's The Grain Of Sand In Your Shoe.