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The March o’ Man
Down to work o’ mornings, an’ back to home at
nights,
Down to hours o’ labor, an’ home to sweet
delights ;
Down to care an’ trouble, an’ home to love an’
rest,
With every day a good one, an’ every evening
blest.
Down to dreary dollars, an’ back to home to play,
From love to work an’ back to love, so slips the
day away.
From babies back to business an 3 back to babes
again,
From parting kiss to welcome kiss, this marks
the march o’ men.
Some care between our laughter, a few hours
filled with strife,
A time to stand on duty, then home to babes
and wife;
The bugle sounds o’ mornings to call us to the
fray,
But sweet an’ low ’tis love that calls us home at
close o’ day.
Father’s Chore
My Pa can hit his thumbnail with a hammer and
keep still;
He can cut himself while shaving an’ not
swear ;
If a ladder slips beneath him an’ he gets a nasty
spill
He can smile as though he really didn’t care.
But the pan beneath the ice-box when he goes
to empty that
Then a sound-proof room the children have
to hunt ;
For we have a sad few minutes in our very
pleasant flat
When the water in it splashes down his front.
My Pa believes his temper should be all the time
controlled ;
He doesn’t rave .at every little thing;
When his collar-button underneath the chiffonier
has rolled
A snatch of merry ragtime he will sing.
But the pan beneath the ice box when to empty
that he goes
As he stoops to drag it out we hear a grunt ;
From the kitchen comes a rumble, an’ then every
body knows
That he splashed the water in it down his front.
Now the distance from the ice box to the sink’s
not very far
I’m sure it isn’t over twenty feet
But though very short the journey, it is long
enough for Pa
As he travels it disaster grim to meet.
And it’s seldom that he makes it without accident,
although
In the summer time it is his nightly stunt ;
And he says a lot of language that no gentleman
should know
When the water in it splashes down his front.
A Lesson from Golf
He couldn’t use his driver any better on the tee
Than the chap that he was licking, who just
happened to be me ;
I could hit them with a brassie just as straight
and just as far,
But I piled up several sevens while he made a
few in par;
And he trimmed me to a finish, and I know the
reason why:
He could keep his temper better when he dubbed
a shot than I.
His mashie stroke is choppy, without any follow
through ;
I doubt if he will ever, on a short hole, cop a
two,
But his putts are straight and deadly, and he
doesn’t even frown
When he’s tried to hole a long one and just fails
to get it down.
On the fourteenth green I faded; there he put
me on the shelf,
And it’s not to his discredit when I say I licked
myself.
He never whined or whimpered when a shot of
his went wrong;
Never kicked about his troubles, but just plodded
right along.
When he flubbed an easy iron, though I knew
that he was vexed,
He merely shrugged his shoulders, and then
coolly played the next,
While I flew into a frenzy over every dub I
made
And was loud in my complaining at the dismal
game I played.
Golf is like the game of living; it will show up
what you are;
If you take your troubles badly you will never
play to par.
You may be a fine performer when your skies
are bright and blue
But disaster is the acid that shall prove the worth
of you;
So just meet your disappointments with a cheery
sort of grin,
For the man who keeps his temper is the man
that’s sure to win.