Footsteps on distant trail
Campward are wandering
Birch fire and bubbling stew
Rich odors sending
Here is your heart's desire
Best when your feet shall tire,
Open air and pale and food and fire
Joy never ending
Campfires are buring low
No longer leaping
Guides sing their evening song
Shadows come creeping
Sun sinks below the west
Goodnight, and may you rest
Blankets warm and by soft sounds caressed
Guides all are sleeping.