When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can," And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . . It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard."You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame. You're young and you're brave and you're bright."You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal, Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day, So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.
It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die; It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight — Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout, All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die, It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.
