A Song for Stout Workers

Onward, brave men, onward go, Place is none for rest below; He who laggeth faints and fails. He who presses on prevails!

Monks may nurse their mouldy moods Caged in musty solitudes; Men beneath the breezy sky March to conquer or to die!

Work and live—this only charm Warms the blood and nerves the arm, As the stout pine stronger grows By each gusty blast that blows.

On high throne or lonely sod, Fellow-workers we with God; Then most like to Him when we March through toil to victory.

If there be who sob and sigh. Let them sleep or let them die; While we live we strain and strive, Working most when most alive!

Where the fairest blossom grew, There the spade had most to do; Hearts that bravely serve the Lord, Like St. Paul, must wear the sword!

Onward, brothers, onward go! Face to face to find the foe! Words are weak, and wishing fails, But the well-aimed blow prevails!