From the Rock Island Argus, September 27, 1913. By Henry Howland.

Westward, ever westward
    The fortune-seekers fare;
The peasant boy stands gazing
    Across bleak hills and bare
And dreams of boundless riches
    Spread out on every hand,
Of splendor and of glory
    Out in the sunset land.

Westward, ever westward
    The fortune-seekers fare;
The “noble” rake and spendthrift
    Dreams of the millionaire
Whose daughter sighs for “glory”
    And cannot understand
Why God assumes no title
    Off there in sunset land.

Eastward, ever eastward
    The fortune-favored fare;
The west gives up its riches
    To them that boldly dare;
The butcher and the miner
    Count up their golden stores
And go to live like princes
    On distant eastern shores.

Eastward, ever eastward
    The fortune-favored fare;
The peasant’s son has visions
    Of social glory there;
Westward, ever westward
    The ragged legion pours;
The lucky ones forever
    Surge back to eastern shores.