Horde of the Great Unwashed! Hobo and

moucher and bum,

Vag and yag and grafter and tramp, we care-

lessly go and come.

Of the morrow we take no heed, no care infests

the day,

Plenty of gump and a train to jump—a grip on

the rods and away!

To the grab for the gear of greed we give no

thought or care,

We own with you the arch of blue—our share

of God’s good air;

—A coin to clear the law, a section of rubber

hose

To soften the chafe of the truss and rod—our

portion of cast-off clothes;

And ours the world—the world! a heritage

won by right,

—By tacit deed to the nomad breed with the

taint of the Ishmaelite.

Some from the wastes of the sage-brush,

some from the orange land,

Some from “God’s own country,” dusty and

tattered and tanned.

Wherefore? ’Tis idle to tell you—you’d

never understand.

Hither and fro,

We come—we go,

Old Father Ishmael’s band.

Yags-will sometimes walk, a tramp will hit the

grit,

But a hobo never will count the ties so long as

he keeps his wit.

There’s the truss of the Wagner freight, the

rods and the jolting truck,

You can grab and swing at the yard-line post

if you’ve muscle enough and pluck.

There’s the perch of the pilot, too, where you’re

target for lumps of coal,

For a shack or a fireman never thinks we’ve

either nerves or soul.

If you’ve taken the full degrees and have cov-

ered the “Honey Route,”

Have fired a rock at the “Fox Train crew,” and

knocked a Doughface out,

You are man for the king-pin act! Here’s hop-

ing you have success

When you risk your neck on the smoke-swept

“deck” of the Limited Express.

Some from the slopes of the Rockies, some

from the Ogden route,

Where the meek old Mormon matrons hand

the milk and honey out,

—West and south and northward—and

t’other way about,

On tank and wall,

You’ll find the scrawl

Of the tramp’s monarka-scout.

Taint of the nomad’s blood! God, if we could

but burst

From the thrall of vags and drop our rags and

cleave to the best—not worst!

Each day on a town’s main-drag, as we’re

flaggin’ some house for prog,

The smile of a child or a maiden’s face will give

our hearts a jog.

And I—yes, even I, have flicked at a sudden tear

And have turned my back on Smoky Jack lest

he see the thing and jeer.

Spur of the nomad’s taint! Back to the ring-

ing rails

That coaxingly curve to the far unknown!

Confusion to courts and jails!

The “goat” is coughing the grade; grab for

the rods, there, Jack,

Look out for your grip, for a bit of a slip will

toss you to grease the track.

Bound for the Greasers’ sage-brush, under

the roaring train,

Decking the fast expresses from Texas north

to Maine,

Grimy and tattered and blinded, Ishmael’s

blood our bane,

We ride—we ride,

To hope denied,

Cursed with the curse of Cain.