Friend, there be they on whom mishap
Or never or so rarely comes,
That, when they think thereof, they snap
Derisive thumbs:
And there be they who lightly lose
Their all, yet feel no aching void;
Should aught annoy them, they refuse
To be annoy’d:
And fain would I be e’en as these!
Life is with such all beer and skittles;
They are not difficult to please
About their victuals:
The trout, the grouse, the early pea,
By such, if there, are freely taken;
If not, they munch with equal glee
Their bit of bacon:
And when they wax a little gay
And chaff the public after luncheon,
If they’re confronted with a stray
Policeman’s truncheon,
They gaze thereat with outstretch’d necks,
And laughter which no threats can smother,
And tell the horror-stricken X
That he’s another.
In snowtime if they cross a spot
Where unsuspected boys have slid,
They fall not down—though they would not
Mind if they did:
When the spring rosebud which they wear
Breaks short and tumbles from its stem,
No thought of being angry e’er
Dawns upon them;
Though ’twas Jemima’s hand that placed,
(As well you ween) at evening’s hour,
In the loved button-hole that chaste
And cherish’d flower.
And when they travel, if they find
That they have left their pocket-compass
Or Murray or thick boots behind,
They raise no rumpus,