Some born of homely parents
For ages settled down-
The steady generations
Of village, farm, and town:
And some of dusky fathers
Who wandered since the flood-
The fairest skin or darkest
Might hold the roving blood-
Some born of brutish peasants,
And some of dainty peers,
In poverty or plenty
They pass their early years;
But, born in pride of purple,
Or straw and squalid sin,
In all the far world corners
The wanderers are kin.

A rover or a rebel,
Conceived and born to roam,
As babies they will toddle
With faces turned from home;
They-ve fought beyond the vanguard
Wherever storm has raged,
And home is but a prison
They 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 single
Who 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 prairies
The skies have seen them go;
They fought to where the ocean
Receives the setting sun;-
But where shall fight the rovers
When all the lands are won?

They thirst on Greenland snowfields,
On Never-Never sands;
Where man is not to conquer
They 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 horizons
They camp by twos and threes;
They hold on stormy borders
Of states that trouble earth
The honour of the country
That only gave them birth.

Unlisted, uncommissioned,
Untaught of any school,
In far-away world corners
Unconquered tribes they rule;
The lone hand and revolver-
Sad eyes that never quail-
The lone hand and the rifle
That win where armies fail.

They slumber sound where murder
And 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 revolver
That lie beside the pen.

Through drought and desolation
They won the way Out Back;
The commonplace and selfish
Have followed on their track;
They conquer lands for others,
For others find the gold,
But where shall go the rovers
When all the lands are old?

A rover and a rebel-
And so the worlds commence!
Their hearts shall beat as wildly
Ten generations hence;
And when the world is crowded-
-Tis signed and sealed by Fate-
The roving blood will rise to make
The countries desolate.