. Selected poems; . etting on all a man prefers to say it—tis a manly lie to the folks may be persuaded that youre doing very well;But its hard to be a hero, and its hard to wear a grin,When your most important garment is in places very thin. Get some sympathy and comfort from the chum who knows you your sorrows wont run over in the presence of the rest;Theres a chum that you can go to when you feel inclined to ? declare your coat is tidy, and hell say: Just look at mine!Though you may be patched all over he will say it doesnt hell swear it cant
. Selected poems; . etting on all a man prefers to say it—tis a manly lie to the folks may be persuaded that youre doing very well;But its hard to be a hero, and its hard to wear a grin,When your most important garment is in places very thin. Get some sympathy and comfort from the chum who knows you your sorrows wont run over in the presence of the rest;Theres a chum that you can go to when you feel inclined to ? declare your coat is tidy, and hell say: Just look at mine!Though you may be patched all over he will say it doesnt hell swear it cant be noticed when your pants begin to go. Brother mine, and of misfortune! times are hard, but do not your courage up and struggle, and well laugh at these things there is no corn in Egypt, surely Africa has some—Keep your smile in working order for the better days to come!We shall often laugh together at the hard times that we know,And get measured by the tailor when our pants begin to The Teams CLOUD of dust on the long, white road,And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide goadThe distant goal is won. With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tires might almost rustWhile the spokes are turning slow. With face half-hid by a broad-brimmed hat,That shades from the heats white shouldered whip, with its green-hide driver plods with a gait like thatOf his weary, patient slaves. He wipes his brow, for the day is hot, And spits to the left with spite;He shouts at Bally, and flicks at Scot,And raises dust from the back of Spot,And spits to the dusty right. Hell sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a settlers door,And ask for a drink, and remark Its warm,Or say Theres signs of a thunderstorm; But he seldom utters more. *<^,. y ^ 1 « -^^f ^
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