OH say, what is this thing called Fame, and is it worth our while? We seek it till we’re old and lame, for weary mile on mile; we seek a gem among the hay, for wheat among the chaff; and in the end some heartless jay will write our epitaph. The naked facts it will relate, and little else beside: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.” The gravestones in the boneyard tell all we shall ever know of men who struggled passing well for glory, long ago. They had their iridescent schemes and lived to see them fail; they had their dreams, as you have dreams, and all of no avail. The gravestones calmly tell their fate, the upshot of their pride: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.” The great men of your fathers’ time, with laurel on each brow, the theme of every poet’s rhyme—where are those giants now? Their names are written in the books which no one ever reads; and on the scroll—where no one looks—the record of their deeds. The idler by the churchyard gate this legend hath espied: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.”
THE VAGABOND
HE’S idle, unsteady, and everyone’s ready to throw him a dornick or give him a biff; he’s always in tatters, but little it matters; he’s evermore happy, so what is the diff? He carries no sorrow, no care for tomorrow, his roof is the heavens, his couch is the soil; no sighing or weeping breaks in on his sleeping, no bell in the morning shall call him to toil. As free as the breezes he goes where he pleases, no rude overseer to boss him around; his joys do not wither, he goes yon and hither, till dead in a haystack or ditch he is found. The joys of such freedom—no sane man can need ’em! Far better to toil for the kids and the wife, till muscles are aching and collarbone breaking, than selfishly follow the vagabond life. One laborer toiling is worth the whole boiling of idlers and tramps of whatever degree; and though we all know it we don’t find a poet embalming the fact as embalmed it should be. The poets will chortle about the blithe mortal who wanders the highways and sleeps in the hay, but who sings the toiler, the sweat-spangled moiler, who raises ten kids on a dollar a day?
THE COMING DAY
THERE’LL come a day when we must make full payment for all the foolish things we do today; and sackcloth then perchance will be our raiment, and we’ll regret the hours we threw away. We loaf today, and we shall loaf tomorrow, hard by the pump or in the corner store; there’ll come a day when we’ll look back with sorrow on wasted hours, the hours that come no more. We say harsh things to friends who look for kindness, and bring the tears to loving, patient eyes; we scold and quarrel in our fretful blindness, instead of smiles, we call up mournful sighs. Our friends will tread the path that leads us only to rest and silence in the grass-grown grave; there’ll come a day when weary, sad and lonely, we’ll think of them and of the wounds we gave. In marts of trade we’re prone to overreaching, to swell our roll we cheat and deal in lies, forgetful oft of early moral teaching, and all the counsel of the good and wise. It is, alas, an evil road we travel, that leads at last to bitterness and woe; there’ll come a day when gold will seem as gravel, and we shall mourn the sins of long ago.
SALTING THEM DOWN
THERE’S trouble in store for the gent who never salts down a red cent, who looks upon cash as the veriest trash, for foolish extravagance meant. Since money comes easy today, he thinks ’twill be always that way, and he burns up the scads with the rollicking lads and warbles a madrigal gay. His dollars are drawn when they’re due; and rather than salt down a few, he throws them, with jests, at the robin red breasts, with riotous hullabaloo. I look down the scurrying years—for I’m the descendant of seers—and the spendthrift descry when his youth is gone by, an object of pity and tears. I see him parading the street, on weary and ring-boney feet, a-begging for dimes, for the sake of old times, to buy him some sauerkraut to eat. I see him abandoned and sick, his pillow a dornick or brick; and the peeler comes by with a vulcanized eye and swats him for luck with a stick. I see him when dying; he groans, but his anguish for nothing atones! And they cart him away in the dawn cold and gray, to the place where they bury cheap bones. Don’t burn up your money, my friend; don’t squander or foolishly lend; though you say it is dross and regret not its loss, it’s a comfort and staff in the end.