English

The Rose in the garden slipped her bud,
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing by—
“He is old—so old! And he soon must die!”

The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread—
‘He is older now! He will soon be dead!”

But the breeze of the morning blew, and found
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,

Success to Tommy Atkins, he's a very brave man,
And to deny it there's few people can;
And to face his foreign foes he's never afraid,
Therefore he's not a beggar, as Rudyard Kipling has said.

No, he's paid by our Government, and is worthy of his hire;
And from our shores in time of war he makes our foes retire,
He doesn't need to beg; no, nothing so low;
No, he considers it more honourable to face a foreign foe.

No, he's not a beggar, he's a more useful man,
And, as Shakespeare has said, his life's but a span;

When God made man to live his hour,
And hitch his wagon to a star,
He made a being without power
To see His creatures as they are.
He made a masterpiece of will,
Superb above its mortal lot,
Invincible by any ill…
Imagination He forgot!

This man of God, with every wish
To earn the joy of Kingdom Come,
Will prison up the golden fish
In bowl no bigger than a drum.
And though he'll wither from remorse
When he refuses Duty's call,
He'll cut the tail off every horse
And carve each helpless animal.

A BEE goes mumbling homeward pleased,
He has not slaved away his hours;
He's drunken with a thousand healths
Of love and kind regard for flowers.
Pour out the wine,
His joy be mine.

Forgetful of affairs at home,
He has sipped oft and merrily;
Forgetful of his duty—Oh!
What can he say to his queen bee?
He says in wine,
“Boo to her shrine!”

The coward dog that wags his tail,
And rubs the nose with mangy curs,
And fearful says, “Come play, not fight,”
Knows not the draught to drown his fears;

The river is stirring in his sleep this night,
Full fed and fighting mad from the lusty rains;
The young spring gods are quick within his veins,
And he's talking, laughing to himself this night.

Listen, the last and holiest eve of flood
Is passing, and to-night the river dreams
Tales from the upland lairs of his warrior streams,
How they came flashing down to join his flood.

Yet he has something on his mind to-night—
A-down his dreams a wayward eddy swirls,
And he laughs outright, a clean laugh like a girl's,

See, see, mine own sweet jewel,
See what I have here for my darling:
A robin-redbreast and a starling.
These I give both, in hope to move thee—
And yet thou say'st I do not love thee.

Black Bart held up the Cow Creek stage in his manner so polite:
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “be pleased now to alight.

“Your money and your jewelry I'm aimin' to collect,
To aid a worthy purpose that I trust you will respect.”

They lined up with their hands high and Bart he passed the hat.
They filled it and he grinned at 'em for he was standing pat.

The driver was a brave man, too gallant for his health,
And he had swore that with his life he'd guard the express wealth.

Who sees the thorns beneath the crown,
Upon a poet's head?
Who knows they sometimes sing to drown
Some horrid, haunting dread?

Who knows what fears beset their way?
Who knows, who cares indeed,
So sweetness charms within the lay,
That aching temples bleed?

Who knows how much they long to shrink
Misfortune's cruel cup?
Who knows what bitter wine they drink,
Who drain that poison up?

Ah, never say the poet writes
The sweeter for his pain;
'Tis false! the dying soldier fights,

O MORTAL virtue and immortal sin,
How often hast thou led the fool aright,
Sent forth a shivering coward to the fight,
And made the worst man win!

Thine are the laurels giddy Pleasure lost,
The crown that hard Endeavour hardly earned;
And Glory woos thee, whom thy foot hath spurned,
With all her host.

He that hath thee, tho' poor in seeming wealth,
Is not bereft. He that hath all beside,
Lives like a beggar, being poor in pride,
And dies by stealth.

There is no writer that shall not perish; but what his hand hath
written endureth ever.
Write, therefore, nothing but what will please thee when thou shalt
see it on the day of judgment.