This text comes from A Shropshire Lad, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Wake: the silver dusk returning
Up the beach of darkness brims,
And the ship of sunrise burning
Strands upon the eastern rims.
Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
Trampled to the floor it spanned,
And the tent of night in tatters
Straws the sky-pavilioned land.
Up, lad, up, 't is late for lying:
Hear the drums of morning play;
Hark, the empty highways crying
'Who 'll beyond the hills away?'
Towns and countries woo together,
Forelands beacon, belfries call;
Never lad that trod on leather
Lived to feast his heart with all.
Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
Sunlit pallets never thrive;
Morns abed and daylight slumber
Were not meant for man alive.
Clay lies still, but blood 's a rover;
Breath 's a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad: when the journey 's over
There 'll be time enough to sleep.