Dark clouds hang heavy over their paths--the atmosphere is chokin' and
stiflin'.

Fur off, fresh and fair, lays the New Land of our ideal. The realm of
peace, and justice to all, of temperance, and sanity, and love and joy.

Fur off, fur off, we hear the melodious swash of its waves on its green
banks--we see fur off the gleam of its white, glory-lit mountain-tops.

Men have gin their strength and their lives for this ideal, this vision
of glory and freedom.

Wimmen have took their jewels from their bosom, and gin 'em to this
cause of Human Right. Gin 'em with breakin' hearts, and white lips that
tried to smile, as the last kiss of lover and son, husband and brother,
rested on 'em.

Yes, men and wimmen both have seen that Ideal Land, that New Land of
Liberty and Love. They have apprehended it with finer senses than
comprehension--have seen it with the clearer light of the soul's eyes.

Some green boughs from its high palms have been washed out on the
swellin' waves that lay between us and that Land, and floated to our
feet. Sometimes, when the air wuz very still and hushed, and a Presence
seemed broodin' on the rapt listnin' earth, we have looked fur, fur up
into the clear depths of blue above us, and we have ketched the distant
glimpse of birds of strange plumage onknown to this Old World. Fur off,
fur off their silvery wings have floated, a-comin' from the West, from
the land that lays beyend the sunset's golden glory.