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!