The dream of the white man ever goes out To the fight that can never be won,
And ever he plans to do the things That they say can never be done.
It's seldom he values the things that are What he craves he may never gain,
Yet ever he tries, till the day he dies And then feels he has lived in vain.
He climbs to the top of the highest hills To search out the vales afar;
He bedrocks a hole on the deepest creeks He hitches his cart to a star.
He's ever the first in the far stampede As he chases the rainbow's blend,
But it's not the need, and it's not the greed, It's the wanting to win in the end.
And whether he strives in the lofty range Or tries in the crowded mart,
The longing to do what has never been done Is uppermost in his heart.
He tries to build where none other has built, Win the maid that none other has won,
To find the gold that he never can hold, To finish what cannot be done.
He lives his life in a trying way And he scorns the things that are tame,
If all seems lost, he still fights on, For ever he plays the game.
And the efforts he makes as he strives to win Are a credit to him and his breed,
And the gods will count and give full amount And accept the act for the deed.
