IT’S forth across the roaring foam, and on towards the west,

It’s many a lonely league from home, o’er many a mountain crest,

From where the dogs of Scotland call the sheep around the fold,

To where the flags are flying beside the Gates of Gold.

Where all the deep-sea galleons ride that come to bring the corn,

Where falls the fog at eventide and blows the breeze at morn;

It’s there that I was sick and sad, alone and poor and cold,

In yon distressful city beside the Gates of Gold.