Part 13

Who does his task from day to day And meets whatever comes his way, Believing God has willed it so, Has found real greatness here below.

Who guards his post, no matter where, Believing God must need him there, Although but lowly toil it be, Has risen to nobility.

For great and low there's but one test: 'Tis that each man shall do his best. Who works with all the strength he can Shall never die in debt to man.

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THE SULKERS

The world's too busy now to pause To listen to a whiner's cause; It has no time to stop and pet The sulker in a peevish fret, Who wails he'll neither work nor play Because things haven't gone his way.

The world keeps plodding right along And gives its favors right or wrong To all who have the grit to work Regardless of the fool or shirk. The world says this to every man: "Go out and do the best you can."

The world's too busy to implore The beaten one to try once more; 'Twill help him if he wants to rise, And boost him if he bravely tries, And shows determination grim; But it won't stop to baby him.

The world is occupied with men Who fall but quickly rise again; But those who whine because they're hit And step aside to sulk a bit Are doomed some day to wake and find The world has left them far behind.

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PURPOSE

Not for the sake of the gold, Not for the sake of the fame, Not for the prize would I hold Any ambition or aim: I would be brave and be true Just for the good I can do.

I would be useful on earth, Serving some purpose or cause, Doing some labor of worth, Giving no thought to applause. Thinking less of the gold or the fame Than the joy and the thrill of the game.

Medals their brightness may lose, Fame be forgotten or fade, Any reward we may choose Leaves the account still unpaid. But little real happiness lies In fighting alone for a prize.

Give me the thrill of the task, The joy of the battle and strife, Of being of use, and I'll ask No greater reward from this life. Better than fame or applause Is striving to further a cause.

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MOTHER'S GLASSES

I've told about the times that Ma can't find her pocketbook, And how we have to hustle round for it to help her look, But there's another care we know that often comes our way, I guess it happens easily a dozen times a day. It starts when first the postman through the door a letter passes, And Ma says: "Goodness gracious me! Wherever are my glasses?"

We hunt 'em on the mantelpiece an' by the kitchen sink, Until Ma says: "Now, children, stop, an' give me time to think Just when it was I used 'em last an' just exactly where. Yes, now I know--the dining room. I'm sure you'll find 'em there." We even look behind the clock, we busy boys an' lasses, Until somebody runs across Ma's missing pair of glasses.

We've found 'em in the Bible, an' we've found 'em in the flour, We've found 'em in the sugar bowl, an' once we looked an hour Before we came across 'em in the padding of her chair; An' many a time we've found 'em in the topknot of her hair. It's a search that ruins order an' the home completely wrecks, For there's no place where you may not find poor Ma's elusive specs.

But we're mighty glad, I tell you, that the duty's ours to do, An' we hope to hunt those glasses till our time of life is through; It's a little bit of service that is joyous in its thrill, It's a task that calls us daily an' we hope it always will. Rich or poor, the saddest mortals of all the joyless masses Are the ones who have no mother dear to lose her reading glasses.

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THE PRINCESS PAT'S

Written when the Canadian regiment known as the "Princess Pat's," left for the front.

A touch of the plain and the prairie, A bit of the Motherland, too; A strain of the fur-trapper wary, A blend of the old and the new; A bit of the pioneer splendor That opened the wilderness' flats, A touch of the home-lover, tender, You'll find in the boys they call Pat's.

The glory and grace of the maple, The strength that is born of the wheat, The pride of a stock that is staple, The bronze of a midsummer heat; A blending of wisdom and daring, The best of a new land, and that's The regiment gallantly bearing The neat little title of Pat's.

A bit of the man who has neighbored With mountains and forests and streams, A touch of the man who has labored To model and fashion his dreams; The strength of an age of clean living, Of right-minded fatherly chats, The best that a land could be giving Is there in the breasts of the Pat's.

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