Because we have swined in the drift,
Because we have horsed it alone,
Strong, unafraid, or in shine or in shade,
Companionless and unknown;

Because we have laboured our bit
For all our impetuous worth,
Roughing it hard, discarded and scarred,
In the uttermost corners of earth;

Through the drag of the long, stagnant day,
Where the infinite wilderness is,
As we slunk from the breath of an imminent death
In this tortuous world of His:

Since we have been pals of the wild,
Tried in the furnace and true,
Don't take it amiss if I dedicate this
Volume of verses to you.