A-flashing countless colours in the knife-cold wintry nights;
I’ve watched the Southern Cross ablaze o’er smiling, sunny lands,
And seen the lazy sea caress palm-sheltered, silvery sands;
Still wild unrest is scouring me, the Wanderlust of yore,
And I must be a wanderer for ever, ever more.
And yet, I see the sun set a-down the Western skies
And glimpse within the wonderness my mother’s pleading eyes;
And yet I hear the West wind sob softly in the trees,
That vainly cloaks her broken call far o’er the distant seas;
And still when shine the dim stars my wander heart would go