Hearken how they cry, “O happy, happy ye that ye were born In the sad slow night’s departing, in the rising of the morn. “Fair the crown the Cause hath for you, well to die or well to live Through the battle, through the tangle, peace to gain or peace to give.” Ah, it may be! Oft meseemeth, in the days that yet shall be, When no slave of gold abideth ’twixt the breadth of sea to sea, Oft, when men and maids are merry, ere the sunlight leaves the earth, And they bless the day belovëd, all too short for all their mirth, Some shall pause awhile and ponder on the bitter days of old, Ere the toil of strife and battle overthrew the curse of gold; Then ’twixt lips of loved and lover solemn thoughts of us shall rise; We who once were fools and dreamers, then shall be the brave and wise. There amidst the world new-builded shall our earthly deeds abide, Though our names be all forgotten, and the tale of how we died. Life or death then, who shall heed it, what we gain or what we lose? Fair flies life amid the struggle, and the Cause for each shall choose. Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, When the Cause shall call upon us, some to live and some to die! NO MASTER. (AIR: “The Hardy Norseman.”) —o— SAITH man to man, We’ve heard and known That we no master need To live upon this earth, our own, In fair and manly deed. The grief of slaves long passed away For us hath forged the chain, Till now each worker’s patient day Builds up the House of Pain. And we, shall we too, crouch and quail, Ashamed, afraid of strife, And lest our lives untimely fail Embrace the Death in Life? Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear, We few against the world; Awake, arise! the hope we bear Against the curse is hurled. It grows and grows—are we the same, The feeble band, the few? Or what are these with eyes aflame, And hands to deal and do? This is the host that bears the word, “NO MASTER HIGH OR LOW”— A lightning flame, a shearing sword, A storm to overthrow. THE MARCH OF THE WORKERS. (AIR: “John Brown.”) WHAT is this, the sound and rumour? What is this that all men hear, Like the wind in hollow valleys when the storm is drawing near, Like the rolling on of ocean in the eventide of fear? ’Tis the people marching on. Whither go they, and whence come they? What are these of whom ye tell? In what country are they dwelling ’twixt the gates of heaven and hell? Are they mine or thine for money? Will they serve a master well? Still the rumour’s marching on. Hark the rolling of the thunder! Lo the sun! and lo thereunder Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, And the host comes marching on.