"The stone that rolleth ne'er shall find
The moss, no substance make,"
Was written by the prophet old,
Who words of wisdom spake;
But, shadowed 'midst its shady bed,
The stone of mossy store
Is useless for the work of man,
And rotten to the core.
The moss the hoard, and man the stone—
Methinks the semblance good,
And rolling stones shall find no moss,
Is wisdom understood;
But where the voice of Empire calls,
The moss is parched and dry,
And we are rolling on our way
Beneath a burning sky.
'Twas planned and modelled from the first,
That we should pioneer,
That we should know the hunger, and
The desert's nameless fear;
And from the East unto the West,
You find the rolling stone
Is playing still a useful part
For you, who stay at home.
You'll find us where, in purple hue,
The shadows slant the sand,
As rivetters of Empire, we're
The fellows you have damned;
You'll find us where the Islam priest
Is chanting at the dawn,
Or throwing out the challenge, on
A crystal Arctic morn.
You'll find us running surveys on
Creation's ragged end,
Or camping in the desert, where
The past and future blend;
We're busy building railways on
The map's deserted spot,
Or staking out an empire in
The land that God forgot.
We haven't failed, tho' p'raps we're not
As steady as the rest,
But still we play the game that's set
The player's skill to test;
We often curse the deal that made
Us wand'rers in the land,
But not a man who's known the game
Would ever change his hand.
So spurn ye not the polished stone
For one of mossy coat,
For some must roll the wilderness,
And some must roll afloat;
And some are making of the moss—
Your harvest p'raps was sown
By he you brand for ever as
A useless rolling stone.