Ka Lanakila, Volume I, Number 2, 8 July 1909 — Halelu no ka Hana———Toils Triumphal Song [ARTICLE]

Halelu no ka Hana———Toils Triumphal Song

Aole ail e mele no ka waiwai a no kahi kiekie, A i ole no na moi waiwai ma ka aina; E mele au no ka manaolana o ka lahui, No ka opio me ka iima hooikaika i ka hana; Ma kona mau poohiwi ua omauia he haku pakahi, No ka hune, oia mai kona hanau ana, Aka aole e poluluhiia e ka hana ame ka poino; Ua lanakila a he koa-kiai no ka honua. Heaha na miliona ke nele ke kulana kanaka makua, Heaha na home, na kakela ame na aina? 0 ke kanak:a a ka Lani i koo ai, Oia ke kaiiaka e lanakila me kona mau lima A kupikipiki-o ke Ao olu. no kela, Aole ma ke one ke ku ana o kona hale, A o ka mea wehe no ka waiwai mau Ke paaia 'la ia e kona' mau lima apuupuu kalakala. O na hae apau i aleia iloko o ka nani "Ua lawe mai oia ia mai ke alii a mai ka wai holo-moku mai, O na mele o na hana koa, na moolelo apau TJa kopeia ma kana hana ame kona koko, Oia ka hookumu, ka hoopakele, ke paleino, Oia ka lima iloko o ko ka. Makua Mana papa hana, A o na anela o ke Akua iloko o ko lakoa nani Aole e mae ka manao no ke kanaka i #fte]eia e ka hana. Nana aku kekahi i kona mau alina o ka hana me ka henehene, O kekahi poe akaaka i ka puanaia o kona inoa, Me ka lima ikaika, kumau ke kikeke ana Ma na ipuka o ka heiau o ke kaulana Emo ole hemo mai la na ipuka i kiai paaia, A loaa kahi no ke koa-wiwoole, Me ka poe kiekie —k£ puali o na poe ola mali E ola ana, e hana ana no ka hoakanaka.

I sJng not of wealth and high station, Or of millionaire kings in the land; ī sing of the hope of the nation, The lad with the toil-hardened hand; On his shoulders has mounted eaeh ter, He is poverty's own from his hirth, But dismayed not by toil or disaster, He has conciuered and guarded the earth. What are millions when manhood is laeking? What are homes and lands? The man who has Heaven's true backmg, Is the man who ean win with his hands. He ean laugh at the world when it rages, His house is not būilt upon sand, And the key to the wealth of the ages, He holds in his rough, thorny hand. Every banner that e'er waved in glory, He has carried through fire and through flood; Bvery song of brave deeds, every story, Is writ in his toil and his blood. He's creator, redeemer, defender, He's the hand in the Almighty's plan, And the angels of God in their splendor, Forget riot the labor-stained man. Some look on his toil-scars wlth mocking, Others sneer at the sound of his name, But with strong, steady h&-nd he keeps knocking At the doors u£ the temple of fame. Soon will open those close-guarded portals, And the hero will pass to his plaee. With the highest—that host of immortals, Who have labored and lived for the race.