Yet he often will fail to get a square meal,
Where the rocks are full of silver ore—
Is it there we’ll find that Western Shore,
Not there, not there, my child.
Eye hath not seen it my verdant youth,
Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth;
For though you go to the farthest state
And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate,
They’ll point you across the Western sea
To the land whence cometh the “heathen Chinee,”