Part 4
Are you singing in the chorus? Do you want to be a star? Plug! You may think that you're a genius, but I don't believe you are, So plug! Oh, you'll hear of this or that one who was born without a name, Who slept eleven hours a day and dreamed the way to fame, Who simply couldn't push it off, so rapidly it came! But plug.
Are you living in the valley? Do you want to reach the height? Plug! Where the hottest sun of day is and the coldest stars of night? Plug! Oh, it may be you're a fool, but if a fool you want to be, If you want to climb above the crowd so every one can see Just how a fool may look when he is at his apogee, Why, plug!
Can you make a mile a minute? Do you want to make it two? Plug! Are you good and up against it? Well, the only thing to do Is plug. Oh, you'll find some marshy places, where the crust is pretty thin, And when you think you're gliding out, you're only sliding in, But the only thing for you to do is think of this and grin, And plug.
There's many a word that's prettier that hasn't half the cheer Of plug. It may not save you in a day, but try it for a year. Plug! And to show you I am competent to tell you what is what, I assure you that I never yet have made a centre shot, Which surely is an ample demonstration that I ought To plug.
FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTENT.
I.
You sometimes think you'd like to be John D.? And not a man you know would dare To josh you on your handsome hair, Or say, "Hey, John, it's rather rude To boost refined and jump on crude, To help Chicago University, Or bull the doctrine of--immersity."
II.
You wouldn't care to be the Pope, I hope? With not a chum to call your own, To hale you up by telephone, With, "Say, old man, I hope you're free To-night. Bring Mrs. Pope to tea. Let some one else lock up the pearly Gateway to-night and get here early!"
III.
Perhaps you sometimes deem the Czar A star? With not a palm in all the land To strike his fairly, hand to hand, With not a man in all the pack To fetch a hand against his back And cry, "Well met, Old Nick, come out And let us trot the kids about. Tut, man! you needn't look so pale, A red flag means an auction sale."
IV.
I'll bet even Shakespeare's name was "Will," Until He was so dead that he was great, For fame can only isolate. And better than "The Immortal Bard" Were "Hello, Bill," and "Howdy, pard!" Would he have swapped his comrades' laughter For all the praise of ages after?
A SONG OF REST.
I have sung the song of striving, Of the struggling, of arriving, Of making of one's self a horse and mounting him and driving! But now, let's cease; Let's look for peace. Let's forget the mark of money, Let's forget the love of fame. Life is ours and skies are sunny; What is worry but a name? Let's sit down and whiff and whittle, Let us loaf and laugh a little.
(Here the youngest spoiled the rime By running to me for a dime.)
I have sung the joy of doing, Of the pleasure of pursuing, And how life is like a woman and our role and rule is wooing, But now, O let Us cease to fret! Let us cease our vain desiring; Water's better than Cliquot; What is honor but perspiring? Wealth's another name for woe. Let us spread out in the clover, Just too lazy to turn over,--
(Here my wife brought in the news: All the children need new shoes.)
I have sung the song of action, Of the sweet of satisfaction Of pounding, pounding, pounding opposition to a fraction, But now, let's quit; Let's rest a bit. Money only makes us greedy, Life's success is but a taunt. He alone is never needy Who has learned to laugh at want. Let us loaf and laugh and wallow; Too much work to even swallow--
(Here's the mail and bills are curses; I must try to sell these verses.)
DESIRE.
Oh, the ripe, red apple which handily hung And flaunted and taunted and swayed and swung, Till it itched your fingers and tickled your tongue, For it was juicy and you were young! But you held your hands and you turned your head, And you thought of the switch which hung in the shed, And you didn't take it (or so you said), But tell me--didn't you want to?
Oh, the rounded maiden who passed you by, Whose cheek was dimpled, whose glance was shy, But who looked at you out of the tail of her eye, And flirted her skirt just a trifle high! Oh, you were human and not sedate, But you thought of the narrow way and straight, And you didn't follow (or so you state), But tell me--didn't you want to?
Oh, the golden chink and the sibilant sign Which sang of honey and love and wine, Of pleasure and power when the sun's a-shine And plenty and peace in the day's decline! Oh, the dream was schemed and the play was planned; You had nothing to do but to reach your hand, But you didn't (or so I understand), But tell me--didn't you want to?
Oh, you wanted to, yes; and hence you crow That the Want To within you found its foe Which wanted you not to want to, and so You were able to answer always "No." So you tell yourself you are pretty fine clay To have tricked temptation and turned it away; But wait, my friend, for a different day! Wait till you want to want to!
THERE IS, OH, SO MUCH.
There is oh, so much for a man to be In nineteen hundred and now. He may cover the world like the searching sea In nineteen hundred and now. He may be of the rush of the city's roar And his song may sing where the condors soar, Or may dip to the dark of Labrador, In nineteen hundred and now.
There is oh, so much for a man to do In nineteen hundred and now. He may sort the suns of Andromeda through In nineteen hundred and now. Or he may strive, as a good man must, For the wretch at his feet who licks the dust, And never learn how to be even just In nineteen hundred and now.
There is oh, so much for a man to learn In nineteen hundred and now: The least and the most he should trouble to earn In nineteen hundred and now, The message burned bright on the heavenly scroll, The little he needs that his stomach be whole, The vastness of vision to sate his soul, In nineteen hundred and now.
There is oh, so much for a man to get In nineteen hundred and now. He may drench the earth in vicarious sweat In nineteen hundred and now. And his wealth may be but a lifelong itch, While the lowliest digger within his ditch May have gained the little to make him rich In nineteen hundred and now.
There is oh, so much for a man to try In nineteen hundred and now. The sea is so deep and the hill so high In nineteen hundred and now. But sometimes we look at our little ball Where the smallest is great and the greatest small And wonder the why and the what of it all In nineteen hundred and now.
There is oh, so much, so we work as we may In nineteen hundred and now, And loiter a little along the way In nineteen hundred and now. O, the honeybee works, but the honeybee clings To the flowers of life and the honeybee sings! Let us eat the sweet and forget the stings In nineteen hundred and now!
HOW DID YOU DIE?
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful? Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there--that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye! It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts, It's how did you fight--and why?
And though you be done to the death, what then? If you battled the best you could, If you played your part in the world of men, Why, the Critic will call it good. Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only how did you die?