Over the hills of time to the valley of endless years;
Over the roads of woe to the land that is free from tears;
Up from the haunts of men to the place where the angels are,
This is the march of mortality to a wonderful goal afar.
Troopers we are in life, warring at times with wrong,
But promised ever unbroken rest at last in a land of song;
And whether we serve or rule, and whether we fall or rise,
We shall come, in time, to that golden vale where never the spirit dies.
Back of the strife for gain, and under the toil for fame,
The dreams of men in this mortal march have ever remained the same.
They have lived through their days and years for the great reward to be,
When earth’s dusty garb shall be laid aside for the robes of eternity.
This is the march of mortality, whatever man’s race or creed,
And whether he’s one of the savage tribe or one of a higher breed,
He is conscious dimly of better things that were promised him long ago,
And he keeps his place in the line with men for the joys that his soul shall know.
Just Folks By Edgar A Guest copyright 1917
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