MY ULTIMATUM.
HO speaks to me of "giving up,"
Or thinks about despairing?
Who says the bitter in his cup
Is bitter past the bearing?
For may I feel the thing to do
(Let Fate be hard or tender)
Is—like La Garde at Waterloo—
To die and not surrender.
What struggles I myself have had;
Escapes how very narrow!
My first affray was with a lad
Who bore a bow and arrow.
If I should ever meet again
That young and old offender,
I see my course before me plain—
To die and not surrender.
In youth I ran a race to snatch
A laurel from Apollo,
Whom very few contrive to catch
Though very many follow.
Amid the throng in search of song—
With bards of either gender—
E'en yet I pant and limp along,
To die and not surrender.
I strove with Plutus day and night,
But left the field in dudgeon;
And now I wage a fiercer fight
With Tempus. old curmudgeon.
Go on, Destroyer; you destroy,
But Art shall be the mender.
"Gray hair?" I 'll get a wig, old boy,
Or dye and not surrender!