They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest. “The Men That Don't Fit In There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. Just have one more try - it's dead easy to die, It's easy to cry that you're beaten - and die īut to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight -Īnd though you come out of each gruelling bout, It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard. Just draw on your grit it's so easy to quit: It's the plugging away that will win you the day, "You've had a raw deal!" I know - but don't squeal, You're young and you're brave and you're bright. "You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame. It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard. In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow. When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,Īnd you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyleīut the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
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