WHY, he never can tell; But, without a doubt, He knows very well He must trample out Through forest and fell The world about A way for himself, A way for himself. By sun and star, Forlorn and lank, O'er cliff and scar, O'er bog and bank, He hears afar The expresses clank, 'You'll never get there, You'll never get there!' His bones and bread Poor Turlygod From his wallet spread On the grass-green sod, And stared and said With a mow and a nod, 'Whither away, sir, Whither away?' 'I'm going alone, Though Hell forfend, By a way of my own To the bitter end.' He gnawed a bone And snarled, 'My friend, You'll soon get there, You'll soon get there.' But whether or no, The world is round; And he still must go Through depths profound, O'er heights of snow, On virgin ground To find a grave, To find a grave. For he knows very well He must trample out Through Heaven and Hell, With never a doubt, A way of his own The world about. |