There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at
will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's
crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to
rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave
and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange
and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would
make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful
pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is
past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth
at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by
half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit
in.
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