The Call of the Spring

Come choose your road and away, my lad,

Come, choose your road and away!

We'll out of the town by the road's bright crown

As it dips to the dazzling day.

It's a long white road for the weary;

But it rolls through the heart of the May.

Though many a road would merrily ring

To the tramp of your marching feet,

All roads are one from the day that's done,

And the miles are swift and sweet,

And the graves of your friends are the mile-stones

To the land where all roads meet.

But the call that you hear this day, my lad,

Is the Spring's old bugle of mirth

When the year's green fire in a soul's desire

Is brought like a rose to the birth;

And knights ride out to adventure

As the flowers break out of the earth.

Over the sweet-smelling mountain-passes

The clouds lie brightly curled;

The wild-flowers cling to the crags and swing

With cataract-dews impearled;

And the way, the way that you choose this day

Is the way to the end of the world.

It rolls from the golden long ago

To the land that we ne'er shall find;

And it's uphill here, but it's downhill there,

For the road is wise and kind,

And all rough places and cheerless faces

Will soon be left behind.

Come, choose your road and away, away,

We'll follow the gipsy sun;

For it's soon, too soon to the end of the day,

And the day is well begun;

And the road rolls on through the heart of the May,

And there's never a May but one.

There's a fir-wood here, and a dog-rose there,

And a note of the mating dove;

And a glimpse, maybe, of the warm blue sea,

And the warm white clouds above;

And warm to your breast in a tenderer nest

Your sweetheart's little glove.

There's not much better to win, my lad,

There's not much better to win!

You have lived, you have loved, you have fought, you have proved

The worth of folly and sin;

So now come out of the City's rout,

Come out of the dust and the din.

Come out,—a bundle and stick is all

You'll need to carry along,

If your heart can carry a kindly word,

And your lips can carry a song;

You may leave the lave to the keep o' the grave,

If your lips can carry a song!

Come, choose your road and away, my lad,

Come choose your road and away.