DISCONTENT
THE man who’s discontented, whose temper’s always frayed, who keeps his shanty scented with words that are decayed, would do as much complaining if all the gods on high upon his head were raining ambrosia, gold, and pie. The man who busts his gallus because his house is cheap, would rant if in a palace he could high wassail keep. The vexed and vapid voter who throws a frequent fit because his neighbors motor while he must hit the grit, would have as many worries, his soul would wear its scars, if he had seven surreys and twenty motor cars. The man who earns his living by toiling in the ditch, whose heart is unforgiving toward the idle rich, who hates his lot so humble, his meal of bread and cheese, would go ahead and grumble on downy beds of ease. Contentment is a jewel that some wear in the breast, and life cannot be cruel so long as it’s possessed! This gem makes all things proper, the owner smiles and sings; it may adorn a pauper, and be denied to kings.
SILVER THREADS
LIFE is fading fast away, silver threads are on my brow; will you love me when I’m gray, as you love me now, my frau? Will you love me when I’m old, and my temper’s on the blink, and I sit around and scold till I drive the folks to drink? When I have the rheumatiz, and lumbago, and repeat, and the cusswords fairly sizz as I nurse my swollen feet; when a crutch I have to use, since my trilbys are so lame that they will not fit my shoes, will you love me just the same? When the gout infests my toes, and all vanished are my charms, will you kiss me on the nose, will you clasp me in your arms? Silver threads are in the gold, life will soon have run its lease; I’d be glad if I were told that your love will still increase when my high ambition fails, and my hopes are all unstrung, and I tell my tiresome tales of the days when I was young; when I sit around the shack making loud and dismal moan, of the stitches in my back, and my aching collar bone; when the asthma racks my chest so I cannot speak a word, will you fold me to your breast, saying I’m your honeybird? When I’m palsied, stiff and sere, when I’m weary of the game, tell me, O Jemima dear, will you love me just the same?
MOVING ON
WE foolish folk are discontented with things where’er we chance to dwell. “The air,” we say, “is sweeter scented in some far distant dale or dell.” And so we pull up stakes and travel to seek the fair and promised land, and find our Canaan is but gravel, a wilderness of rocks and sand. “Across the hills the fields are greener,” we murmur, “and the view more fair; the water of the brooks is cleaner, and fish grow larger over there.” And so we leave our pleasant valley, from all our loving friends we part, and o’er the stony hills we sally, to reach a land that breaks the heart. “There’s gold in plenty over yonder,” we say, “and we shall seek the mines.” Then from our cheerful homes we wander, far from our fig trees and our vines; a little while our dreams we cherish, and think that we can never fail; but, tired at last, we drop and perish, and leave our bones upon the trail. How happy is the man whose nature permits him to enjoy his home, who, till compelled by legislature, declines in paths afar to roam! There is no region better, fairer, than that home region that you know; there are no zephyrs sweeter, rarer, than those which through your galways blow.