This life is but a pilgrimage
From cradle to the grave,
And each man has his Mecca,
Both honest man and knave.
It may be love, it may be gold,
It may be honours manifold,
Revenge or greed, religion, lust,
A cottage, palace, woman’s trust.
But each man starts upon the road
Before him Mecca lies,
And fate she jeers and whispers
To each pilgrim as he dies:
CHORUS
Hast thou been to Mecca?
Hast thou reach’d thy goal?
Did’st thou fall upon the way;
Could not strength or courage stay?
Or have dreams come true
As they sometimes do?
Hast thou been to Mecca?
Hast thou saved thy soul?
We start upon our pilgrimage
With hope our only load,
We reck not of the obstacles
We do not know the road;
It may be long, it may be short,
It may be with grim terror fraught,
Uneven, smooth, soul deep in mud,
Be bath’d in sunshine, stained with blood;
Yet with light hearts we journey forth
Before us Mecca lies,
And fate who pulls the strings, she laughs,
And at the end she cries: