Man born to toil

Man, born to toil, in his labour rejoiceth;

His voice is heard in the morn:

He armeth his hand and sallieth forth

To engage with the generous teeming earth,

And drinks from the rocky rills

The laughter of life.

Or else, in crowded cities gathering close,

He traffics morn and eve

In thronging market-halls;

Or within echoing walls

Of busy arsenals

Weldeth the stubborn iron to engines vast;

Or tends the thousand looms

Where, with black smoke o'ercast,

The land mourns in deep glooms.

Life is toil, and life is good:

There in loving brotherhood

Beateth the nation's heart of fire.

Strife! Strife! The strife is strong!

There battle thought and voice, and spirits conspire

In joyous dance around the tree of life,

And from the ringing choir

Riseth the praise of God from hearts in tuneful song.