A Heap O Livin | Page 8

threads in the warp of life are
the sorrow tugs at your heart.
Oh, the fun is froth and it blows away, and
many a joy's forgot,
And the pleasures come and the pleasures go,
and memory holds them not;
But treasured ever you keep the pain
that causes
your tears to start,
For the sweetest hours are the ones that bring
the sorrow tugs at your heart.
The lump in your throat and the little sigh when
your baby trudged away
The very first time to the big red school --
how
long will their memory stay?
The fever days and the long black
nights you
watched as she troubled, slept,
And the joy you felt when she smiled
once
more -- how long will that all be kept?
The glad hours live in a feeble way, but the sad
ones never die.
His first long trousers caused a pang and you
saw them with a sigh.
And the big still house when the boy and girl,

unto youth and beauty grown,
To college went; will you e'er forget
that first
grim hour alone?
It seems as you look back over things, that all
that you treasure dear
Is somehow blent in a wondrous way with a
heart pang and a tear.
Though many a day is a joyous one when
viewed by itself apart,
The golden threads in the warp of life are the
sorrow tugs at your heart.
ONLY A DAD
Only a dad with a tired face,
Coming home from the daily race,

Bringing little of gold or fame
To show how well he has played the
game;
But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
To see him come
and to hear his voice.
Only a dad with a brood of four,
One of ten million men or more

Plodding along in the daily strife,
Bearing the whips and the scorns of
life,
With never a whimper of pain or hate,
For the sake of those
who at home await.
Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
Merely one of the surging crowd,

Toiling, striving from day to day,
Facing whatever may come his
way,
Silent whenever the harsh condemn,
And bearing it all for the
love of them.
Only a dad but he gives his all,
To smooth the way for his children
small,
Doing with courage stern and grim
The deeds that his father
did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen:
Only a dad, but the
best of men.

HARD KNOCKS
I'm not the man to say that failure's sweet,
Nor tell a chap to laugh
when things go
wrong;
I know it hurts to have to take defeat
An'
no one likes to lose before a throng;
It isn't very pleasant not to win

When you have done the very best you could;
But if you're down, get
up an' buckle in --
A lickin' often does a fellow good.
I've seen some chaps who never knew their
power
Until somebody knocked 'em to the floor;
I've known men
who discovered in an hour
A courage they had never shown before.

I've seen 'em rise from failure to the top
By doin' things they hadn't
understood
Before the day disaster made 'em drop --
A lickin' often
does a fellow good.
Success is not the teacher, wise an' true,
That gruff old failure is,
remember that;
She's much too apt to make a fool of you,
Which
isn't true of blows that knock you flat.
Hard knocks are painful things
an' hard to bear,
An' most of us would dodge 'em if we could;

There's something mighty broadening in care --
A lickin' often does a
fellow good.
SPRING IN THE TRENCHES
It's coming time for planting in that little patch
of ground,
Where the lad and I made merry as he followed
me around;
Now the sun is getting higher, and the skies
above are blue,
And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the
war was through.
But it's tramp, tramp, tramp,
And it's never look
behind,
And when you see a stranger's kids
Pretend that you are
blind.

The spring is coming back again, the birds
begin to mate;
The skies are full of kindness, but the world is
full of hate.
And it's I that should be bending now in peace
above the soil
With laughing eyes and little hands about to
bless the toil.
But it's fight, fight, fight,
And it's charge at
double-quick;
A soldier thinking thoughts of home
Is one more
soldier sick.
Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and
saw the roses bud;
This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of
it is blood.
Last year the mother in the door was glad as
she could be;
To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is
hurting me.
But it's shoot, shoot, shoot,
And when the bullets hiss,

Don't let the tears fill up your eyes,
For weeping soldiers miss.
Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will
sow the seeds?
And who will do the heavy work the little
garden needs?
And who will tell the lad of mine the things
he wants to know,
And take his hand and