“We left the grassy paths where oft we used to roam,
We left the mournful lake where oft we used to sail,
We left the mother dear in our far away home.
We came out here with hope, we came perhaps to fail.

For in our eyes then shone th’unholy lust of gold;
We longed to go back rich, back to our home again,
Back to the lone farm-yard, back to the lowing fold,
And back to her we love who waits perhaps in vain.

But as we work and work, fades in our eyes the lust,
And now that we succeed we do not laugh, but groan;
As we wash in the stream the precious golden dust,
And as our picks strike fire out of the sullen stone.

But we will not return as poor as we came here;
We are too proud for that, and home we will not go
To see those that were friends contemptuously sneer,
And speak to us with mock and with insulting woe.

Throw wealth away, my men; be happy if you can,
But do not seek to find your happiness in gold.
Ambitious ever was, and shall be, heart of man
Till in the grave he lie as powerless as cold.”