It is you, my dears, with your beauty
And freshness of mind and heart
Who must offer your share of duty
And play yet a nobler part.
For the world, it has need of beauty
And youth that is fine and new,
And the call you may hear to duty
Is for you, my dears—just you.
It is you, my dears, that the sages
Have written their counsels to,
It is you, my dears, that the ages
Leave legacies to—just you.
And remember that every letter
That Wisdom has graven through
The years, so the world be better,
Is for you, my dears—just you.
It is you who must be the bravest
To fight, if the cause be true;
It is you who must be the gravest
In word and in deed—just you.
It is you who must be the strongest
To stand till the battle’s through,
And you who must smile the longest
And never despair—just you.
It is you, my dears, and your glory
Of gladness and youth and smile,
Who shall help to say if the story
Of life and the world’s worth while.
For the years of all time have shaped us,
And the lore of the Ages, too,
And to say if the Truth’s escaped us
Is for you, my dears—just you.
A TOAST TO THE SMALL BOY
HE knows the vagrant country roads
Where sleepily they wind;
He has his pockets full of toads,
His smile is broad and kind;
His dreams of lands and seas—who knows?
His joys are never still,
And whistling through the world he goes,
The rugged small boy—Bill!
His world is full of song and shine,
His days are all his own;
His nights are full of plans so fine
That youngsters all have known;
With all the joy that health can give
His ruddy pulses thrill,
And, bless me, how he loves to live,
This rugged small boy—Bill!
His trousers know the ample patch,
His shoes gape at the toes,
But see him gladly toe the scratch
For any chum he knows;
The heart of him is good as gold,
And songs of gladness spill
From his red lips, this sunny-souled
And rugged small boy—Bill!
His scratch-scarred legs are never tired,
His eyes bright-souled and starred,
His heart with hopeful youth is fired,
His sunny soul unscarred;
The world is his, the fields, the trees,
The brook, the wood, the hill,
To do his will, as he may please,
This rugged small boy—Bill!
He knows the song of life by heart,
In fancy he may weave
Such dreams as make the pulses start,
A King of Make-Believe;
And when I speak with him I hear
Truth ripple like a rill
From him, and gladness and good cheer,
This rugged small boy—Bill!