Toil, toil, toil,
Ever, unceasingly;
The sun gets up, and the sun goes down,
Alike in the city, in field or town,
He brings fresh toil to me,
And I ply my hard, rough hands
With a heart as light and free
As the birds that greet my early plow,
Or the wind that fans my sunburnt brow
In gusts of song and glee.

Toil, toil, toil,
Early, and on, and late:
They may call it mean and of low degree,
But I smile to know that I'm strong and free,
And the good alone are great.
'Tis nature's great command,
And a pleasing task to me,
For true life is action and usefulness;
And I know an approving God will bless
The toiler abundantly.

Toil, toil, toil-
Glory awaits that word;
My arm is strong and my heart is whole,
And exult as I toil with manly soul
That the voice of Truth is heard.
On, Comrades! faint not now-
Ours is a manly part!
Toil, for a glorious meed is ours-
The fulcrum of all earthly powers
Is in our hands and heart.

Toil, toil, toil-
Life is labor and love:
Live, love and labor is then our song,
Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng,
With our Architect above.
Then monuments will stand
That need no polish'd rhyme-
Firm as the everlasting hills,
High as the clarion note that swells
The 'praises of all time.'