Classic Poem

You hear a plenty of complaint
About the times. Folks say they ain't
As good as times had ought to be;
But why they ain't they can't agree.
Some blame the trusts, an' others blame
The agitation on the same
That keeps the public mind aflame.

An' there's the tariff; that is what
Some say it is, an' some it's not.
The customer will tell you why
The cost of livin' is so high —
The tariff, blame it! Bye-an'-bye
The factory whose trade is slow
Will tell you why the price is low —
The tariff, blame it! made it so.

Well, I dunno. It seems to me
That somethin' else the cause may be —
That there may be some reason plain
Why things cloud up an' look like rain.
I rather guess that maybe you
An' me have more or less to do
With makin' times. It ain't the chaps
In Washington alone, perhaps,
That make 'em good or make 'em dull
An' money scarce or plentiful.

Of course they help. When times is good
They're glad to have it understood
They fixed things like they said they would.
Perhaps they did, perhaps they do;
Perhaps they did the other, too —
For hard times never hit the purse
But some fool law can make 'em worse.

I rather guess that you an' me
Make panics an' prosperity.
An', if a quiet time should come
An' people have to figger some
To make the same old two ends meet
An' furnish stuff to wear an' eat,
That you an' me an' such as us
Made business so, an' matters thus,
An' not some legislatin' cuss.

Now confidentially, my friends,
Not what he makes but what he spends
It is that separates the ends
Man has such trouble makin' meet —
An' that's the kernel in the wheat.
You know it sort of seems of late
That we are goin' quite a gait —
Are makin' cash hand over fist
With ev'ry business on the list.
An' actin' like (an' quite a bit)
A drunken sailor spendin' it.

I know, I know, when men git old
They like to set around an' scold
An' talk about the good old days
When people followed better ways.
An' so, whatever I may say,
You'll figger it's because the gray
Is creepin' slowly through my hair —
Because the snow is driftin' there.

But I remember, when a boy
We had a decent share of joy —
I'll bet I laffed as often then
As do these later gentlemen
Who hang around the blazin' bars
Or hit it up in auto cars.

We never seen a cabaret;
We never drunk a night away;
We never gambled till the sun —
An' yet, we had a little fun.
Why, boy, I look along the years
Of childhood with the pioneers,
An' memory is sweet with tears.

I see it now: the little town,
A road of plank that wandered down
A street we called " The Avenue, "
A sawdust city through an' through —
Oh, it would never do for you!

The girls wore gingham, calico,
An' other weaves you never know.
Their bonnets saved their cheeks from tan,
But raised the dickens with a man.
For blue eyes peepin' from a poke,
A white neck in a modest yoke,
Were twice as purty, seems to me ,
As laigs that all the world can see.

At six the sawmill whistle blew;
With swingin' pails the sawmill crew
Come walkin' up the sawdust hill
From Ryerson's or Mason's mill
Or White an' Swan's or anywhere
A pathway met the thoroughfare.
Soft eyes of blue an' eyes of brown
Were watchin' in the windowed town
An' blushed, an' pulled the curtains down.
An' then the evenin' an' the moon!
Why, anywhere it's night an' June
An' moonlight is a place to spoon!

They hadn't made the auto then —
A lucky thing for common men
Like us, with just an envelope
Each thirty days, an' love, an' hope.
In fact a girl felt purty big
Whose fellah hired a liv'ry rig
An' drove her to a country dance —
That was enough extravagance.

But, lookin' backward to those nights,
They seem as full of love's delights
As life could be — perhaps because
Man's money don't make lovers' laws.
For I have set upon a stump
An' heard the heart inside me thump
As you who Peacock Alley sweep
Have never felt your pulses leap.
Or I have let the old horse walk
An' took her hand in mine to talk,
An' sneaked an arm around her waist
An' held her only half-embraced —
Yes, half in earnest, half in play,
For fear she'd take my arm away.
An' I have let the ribbons fall
An' never drove the horse at all
An' drawn her closer — Why, my boy,
Is money all there is of joy?
Is love across a glass of wine
A better, bigger love than mine,
In that old buggy 'neath the pine?

How I have wandered! My intent
To speak in this here argument
Concerned the times. When times is slow
It's me an' you that makes 'em so.
But people now have come to prize
The thing alone that money buys;
We all have learnt to advertise —
The more it costs the more we boast,
An' he is best who spends the most.
We slave to earn like maddened moles;
Within the earth we dig our holes
An' wallow there an' sell our souls.
We climb the air, we scrape the sky,
An' wind an' storm an' God defy.
The cottage that we used to own
We've traded for a thing of stone.
We house our babes in caves of steel
An' never teach 'em there to kneel
An' love of home an' hearth to feel.

Why, home meant somethin' in the days
Us graybeards love to set an' praise.
You can't make homes of city flats
With hallway rows an' back yard spats,
Where men an' women, kids an' cats,
Are huddled on a single floor,
With ev'ry noise a call to war.
You've got to own the house, the ground,
An' everything that grows around.
A path that wanders to a gate,
Where little children come to wait
When father's comin' happens late,
That's home — Home ain't in dinin' out
An' eatin' ev'rywhere about;
Home ain't electric lights, the flash
Of di'monds, an' the music's crash —
For life is somethin' more than cash.

The times? Yes, I was talkin' of
The times. You sort of laff at love,
An' so we'll talk of dollars, friend —
A language you can comprehend.
Well, times git tighter now an' then —
They may git tighter here again;
An' then we pay the price, my boy,
For all our artificial joy.
The joys of old made no one poor,
But made the country more secure.
This land was builded on a rock
Of corncob pipe an' gingham frock.
But now, when trouble comes, my lad,
When times git tight an' business bad,
We're little fixed in soul or purse
To meet conditions that are worse.
We've spent our money, spilled our blood,
An' built no ark to ride the flood
When trouble comes. An' then we quit
An' talk about the cause of it.
We blame some other fellah's game,
When we, ourselves, are all to blame.
The times? It's us that makes the same!