While The Billy BoilsSearchSome born of homely parentsFor ages settled down—The steady generationsOf village, farm, and town:And some of dusky fathersWho wandered since the flood—The fairest skin or darkestMight hold the roving blood—
Some born of brutish peasants,And some of dainty peers,In poverty or plentyThey pass their early years;But, born in pride of purple,Or straw and squalid sin,In all the far world cornersThe wanderers are kin.
A rover or a rebel,Conceived and born to roam,As babies they will toddleWith faces turned from home;They’ve fought beyond the vanguardWherever storm has raged,And home is but a prisonThey pace like lions caged.
They smile and are not happy;They sing and are not gay;They weary, yet they wander;They love, and cannot stay;They marry, and are singleWho watch the roving star,For, by the family fireside,Oh, lonely men they are!
They die of peace and quiet—The deadly ease of life;They die of home and comfort;They live in storm and strife;No poverty can tie them,Nor wealth nor place restrain—Girl, wife, or child might draw them,But they’ll be gone again!
Across the glowing desert;Through naked trees and snow;Across the rolling prairiesThe skies have seen them go;They fought to where the oceanReceives the setting sun;—But where shall fight the roversWhen all the lands are won?
They thirst on Greenland snowfields,On Never-Never sands;Where man is not to conquerThey conquer barren lands;They feel that most are cowards,That all depends on ‘nerve,’They lead who cannot follow,They rule who cannot serve.
Across the plains and ranges,Away across the seas,On blue and green horizonsThey camp by twos and threes;They hold on stormy bordersOf states that trouble earthThe honour of the countryThat only gave them birth.
Unlisted, uncommissioned,Untaught of any school,In far-away world cornersUnconquered tribes they rule;The lone hand and revolver—Sad eyes that never quail—The lone hand and the rifleThat win where armies fail.
They slumber sound where murderAnd treachery are bare—The pluck of self-reliance,The pluck of past despair;Thin brown men in pyjamas—The thin brown wiry men!—The helmet and revolverThat lie beside the pen.
Through drought and desolationThey won the way Out Back;The commonplace and selfishHave followed on their track;They conquer lands for others,For others find the gold,—But where shall go the roversWhen all the lands are old?
A rover and a rebel—And so the worlds commence!Their hearts shall beat as wildlyTen generations hence;And when the world is crowded—’Tis signed and sealed by Fate—The roving blood will rise to makeThe countries desolate.