From the Rock Island Argus, September 27, 1913. By Henry Howland.
Westward, ever westward
The fortune-seekers fare;
The peasant boy stands gazing
Across bleak hills and bare
And dreams of boundless riches
Spread out on every hand,
Of splendor and of glory
Out in the sunset land.
Westward, ever westward
The fortune-seekers fare;
The “noble” rake and spendthrift
Dreams of the millionaire
Whose daughter sighs for “glory”
And cannot understand
Why God assumes no title
Off there in sunset land.
Eastward, ever eastward
The fortune-favored fare;
The west gives up its riches
To them that boldly dare;
The butcher and the miner
Count up their golden stores
And go to live like princes
On distant eastern shores.
Eastward, ever eastward
The fortune-favored fare;
The peasant’s son has visions
Of social glory there;
Westward, ever westward
The ragged legion pours;
The lucky ones forever
Surge back to eastern shores.
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