'Tis the song of the morning,
The words of the sun,
As he swings o'er the mountains:
'There's work to be done:
I must wake up the sleepers,
And banish the night;
I must paint up the heavens,
Tuck the stars out of sight;
'Dry the dew on the meadows,
Put warmth in the air,
Chase the fog from the lowlands,
Stay gloom everywhere.
No pausing, no resting,
There's work to be done.
It is upward and onward,
Still on,' says the sun.
'Tis the song of our soldiers
Who bravely march on:
'There are souls to be gathered,
There's work to be done:
We must wake up the sleepers,
And teach them to think;
We must paint in full horrors
The breakers of drink;
'Dry the tears of the mourners,
Put the cups out of sight,
And, Eastward and Westward,
Proclaim, 'There is light.'
'Tis the Marseillaise of Progress-
There's work to be done,'
The song of our soldiers,
The song of the sun.