Oh, some may long for the Open Road,
Or crave for the prairie breeze,
And some, o’ersick of the city’s strain,
May yearn for the whispering trees.
With an oh, for the rain to cool my face,
And the wind to blow my hair!
And oh, for the trail to Joyous Garde,
Where I may find my fair!
And some may love to lie in the field
In the stark and silent night,
The glistering dew for a coverlet
And the moon and stars for light.
Let others sing of the soughing pines
And the winds that rustle and roar,
And others long for the Open Road,
As I may have remarked before.
Ay, some may sing of the bursting bomb
And the screech of a screaming shell,
Or tell the tale of the cruel trench
On the other side of hell.
And some may talk of the ten mile hike
In the dead of a winter night,
And others chaunt of the doughtie Kyng
With mickle valour dight.
And some may long for the song of a child
And the lullaby’s fairy charm,
And others yearn for the crack of the bat
And the wind of the pitcher’s arm.
Oh, some have longed for this and that,
And others have craved and yearned;
And they all may sing of whatever they like,
As far as I’m concerned.