Part 20 (2/2)

There is too much of sighing, and weaving Of pitiful tales of despair.

There is too much of wailing and grieving, And too much of railing at care.

There is far too much glorification Of money and pleasure and fame; But I sing the joy of my station, And I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of tremble-lip telling Of hurts that have come with the fight.

There is too much of pitiful dwelling On plans that have failed to go right.

There is too much of envious pining For luxuries others may claim.

Too much thought of wining and dining, But I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of grim magnifying The troubles that come with the day, There is too much indifferent trying To travel a care-beset way.

Too much do men think of gold-getting, Too much have they underwrit shame, Which accounts for the frowning and fretting, But I sing the joy of my game.

Let's get back to the work we are doing; Let us reckon its joys and its pain; Let us pause while our tasks we're reviewing, To sum up the cost of each gain.

Let us give up our whining and wailing Because of the bruises that maim, And battle the chances of failing As being a part of the game.

Let us care more for serving than winning, Let us look at our woes as they are; It is time now that we were beginning To be less afraid of a scar.

Let us cease in our glorification Of money and pleasure and fame, And find, whatsoe'er be our station, Our joy in the love of the game.

Roses and Suns.h.i.+ne

Rough is the road I am journeying now, Heavy the burden I'm bearing to-day; But I'm humming a song, as I wander along, And I smile at the roses that nod by the way.

Red roses sweet, Blooming there at my feet, Just dripping with honey and perfume and cheer; What a weakling I'd be If I tried not to see The joy and the comfort you bring to us here.

Just tramping along o'er the highway of life, Knowing not what's ahead but still doing my best; And I sing as I go, for my soul seems to know In the end I shall come to the valley of rest.

With the sun in my face And the roses to grace The roads that I travel, what have I to fear?

What a coward I'd be If I tried not to see The roses of hope and the suns.h.i.+ne of cheer.

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