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; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don’t know how to rest.
The Wanderlust has got me... by the belly-aching fire.
It isn’t the mountain ahead that wears you out; it’s the grain of sand in your shoe.
A promise made is a debt unpaid.
Our breath is brief, and being so Let’s make our heaven here below, And lavish kindness as we go.
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones who win in the lifelong race.
This is the law of the Yukon, that only the strong shall thrive; that surely the weak shall perish, and only the fit survive.