Away! with loy­al hearts and true,
O’er hill and dale they pressed
Full four score wea­ry miles, to do
The Cæ­sar’s high be­hest;
And Ma­ry sang Mag­ni­fi­cat,
Her own, her an­cient song;
For well wist she that God’s de­cree
Was bear­ing her along,
Was bear­ing her along.

Away! through fields and mea­dows green,
O’er pur­ple heather-bed,
By mount­ain pass, or dark ra­vine,
The faith­ful cou­ple sped.
And soft and sweet, wher­e’er they went,
To glad the wea­ry way,
Sang Mary that Mag­ni­fi­cat,
Her own, her an­cient lay,
Her own, her an­cient lay.

O’erhead the storm clouds oft­en wept,
And tem­pests o’er them passed,
And cold around them oft­en swept
The bleak De­cem­ber blast.
But still she sang Mag­ni­fi­cat,
Through wea­ther foul or fair;
For all was rest with­in her breast,
’Twas al­ways sun­shine there,
’Twas al­ways sun­shine there.

And when the pil­grim­age was o’er,
And of their roy­al king
Not one would op­en wide his door,
And bid them en­ter in;
Still Mary sang Mag­ni­fi­cat
With ev­er joy­ful tone;
Whate’er be­tide, the Lord, she cried,
Is mind­ful of His own.

Worn out at last, and ill-be­stead,
Right glad were they to find
Within a sor­ry cat­tle shed
A shel­ter from the wind.
And Ma­ry sang Mag­ni­fi­cat
Right through that won­drous night;
And, e’er the birth of morn on earth,
Was born the Light of Light.

Then let us all with one ac­cord
Join Ma­ry’s song and say,
My soul doth mag­ni­fy the Lord,
For ever and for aye.
Let us sing Mag­ni­fi­cat,
That dear and an­cient lay,
For God’s own Son with us is one,
And He is born to­day.