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 woe¹, 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 squeal²,

　　Buck³ 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 grit⁴； 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 bout⁵,

　　All beaten and broken and scarred,

　　Just have one more try —— it's dead easy to die,

　　It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.