Sons of the survey, sons of the wild, sons of the
prodigal son,
Chums of the lonely and ancient pine, standing
eternally dumb;
Knowing the cost of the words "To fail," staking the
way in the gloom,
Dreaming the dream in the dim unseen, daring its
ravening doom,
Men who are known by the great alone, men who are
leading the way,
Fighting the fight in the long, lone night, loving the
lure of the fray;
Reckless and careless, but ever true, men of the track
and the mine,
Carving to-day 'midst the desert's sway, their names
on the sands of time.
Men with a home that is all in the world, men who
are fated to stay,
Roaming the West or the mighty North, building the
future to-day;
Drawing a hand when the world began, playing the
game that is set;
Plans that were born on Creation's morn, wanderers
wandering yet.
Counting the stars in the Southern cross, sweltering
deep in the Rand;
Blanketed tight in the Arctic night, brothers reclaiming
the land.
Fighting a thirst in a land accursed, bringing it
honor and fame;
Shatt'ring its curse, and its fears disperse, men who
the wilderness tame.
Men who have chosen the lonely way, men who have
given the gift,
Living for us in the lands to come, men who are
lifting the mist;
Draining the land on a fevered strand, damming the
torrents that pour,
Leaving their brand on the desert sand, men who have
opened the door.
Men who have ravished the wilderness, men who have
followed the trail,
Men who are sleeping the dreamless sleep, far in the
innermost pale;
Never the chant of the abbey's choir, only the wolves
in the night,
Finding a tomb in the deathless gloom, men who have
finished the fight.
What if they're careless—are we to judge slips that
they make in the game?
If we were men of a survey crew, God help us, we'd
do the same.
What if they sin? Are we free from that: it so, let
us throw the stone,
But few are the men who have kept the ten commands
from the ancient throne.
Men from the college or from the farm, men of the
wandering breed,
Men of the 'Varsity's honored roll, men whom the future
will need;
Men who are young, and have just begun, soon with
the wilderness blend,
Men who are grey in the work to-day, men who are
nearing the end.
Men still living yet men who are dead, men who are
buried at home,
Living afresh in the loneliness, men who forever must
roam;
Men with a name that is not the same as once in the
days gone by,
Men who have come with a secret dumb, men who have
severed the tie.
We who have followed the beaten track, we who have
chosen the home,
We who have never desired to stray, to fathom the
mystic zone;
Spirits who dwell in a conquered sphere, deaf to the
wandering call,
Honor the men of the wilderness, men who have given
their all.
All for the years that are yet to come, sowers who
never will reap,
Send thro' the darkness the call of dawn, waking
eternity's sleep;
Hard in the hardness of harder things, hardness we
never have seen,
Men who have finished the Master's work, bridging the
space between.
We, who must reap of their toil to-day, harvesting
seed they have sown,
Are we forgetting the price they paid, these heroes
we've never known?
Are we neglecting the debt we owe, the debt we can
ne'er repay,
Carelessly viewing their finished work, indifferently on
our way?
Sons of the Survey, sons of the wild, sons of the
prodigal son,
Boys who are treading the lonely way, fellows of whom
I have sung;
Let us remember the deeds they've done, leaving
forever their name,
Lettered in gold, and the story told, for aye on the
scroll of fame.