Strike hands, young men!We know not whenDeath or disaster comes,Mightier than battle-drumsTo summon us away.Death bids us say farewellTo all we love, nor stayFor tears;—and who can tellHow soon misfortune's handMay smite us where we stand,Dragging us down, aloof,Under the swift world's hoof? Strike hands for faith, and powerTo gladden the passing hour;To wield the sword, or raise a song;—To press the grape; or crush out wrong.And strengthen right.Give me the man of sturdy palmAnd vigorous brain;Hearty, companionable, sane,'Mid all commotions calm,Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;—Give me the manWhose impulses aspire,And all his features seem to say, "I can!"Strike hands, young men!'Tis yours to help rebuild the State,And keep the Nation great.
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