For life to them was full of pain,
Death opened wide the only door,
While others weep and plead in vain
For just one little moment more.

Through all the springs that come and go,
At noon, at night, at early dawn,
Through summer's heat and winter's snow,
That silent army marches on!

On, on forever to the tomb!
They pitch no tents along the way;
On, on, it is the common doom,
There's no return and no delay.

They take no purse nor scrip with them
However rich they were before;
The brow of beauty wears no gem,
And slaves are men--and kings no more.

From every land, and sea, and clime,
Through all the ages that are gone,
Through all the years of future time,
That host has marched--will still march on.

And shall we of to-morrow boast?
This very night may seal our doom
And find us with that shadowy host,
Whose line of march is for the tomb!