One of the "Boys of Seventy-Six"
He's just a Boy, a Lively Boy,
Who notes no years, I ween;
He might be six and seventy, or
He might be "sweet sixteen."
He's done a marv'lous work, and still
Is putting in his licks
To prove the staying powers of
A "Boy of Seventy-Six."
"His hair is white?" Of course it's white!
He's white, all through and through!
His soul is white, has always been;
His heart is white and true.
But in Life's Battle has he shown
Whiteness of feather? Nix!!
His whiteness adds new glory to
The "Boys of Seventy-Six."
"What great things has he done?" Ah! if
The querist only knew it,
Greatness concerns not what we do,
But, rather, how we do it.
And every deed well done is great;
And that is just his fix!
Say! isn't that some record for
A "Boy of Seventy-Six"?
"But doesn't he take time to play?"
Why, bless your anxious soul!
He's always played,—too hard to note
How fast the seasons roll!
He's playing yet; but work and play
In him so closely mix
You don't know which to call him, Man
Or "Boy of Seventy-Six."
"His favorite game?" No need to ask;
That in which Good is rife;
The game that tests all human worth,—
The glorious Game of Life.
He never "stacks the cards," and yet
He takes his share of tricks;
Competitors have nothing on
This "Boy of Seventy-Six."
"But when does he intend to stop?
He's surely done his share;
Give him some nook and let him play
A game of solitaire."
Methinks I see you try it on!
There'd be some vigorous kicks;
You'd feel them, too, though coming from
A "Boy of Seventy-Six."
A "quitter," he? Not on your life!
He's built on different lines;
He'll never be a quitter while
The Sun of Priv'lege shines!
As long as he can serve the needs
Of Harrys, Toms and Dicks
Who look his way, he'll be "on call,"
This "Boy of Seventy-Six."
Freeman Putney.