Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 58

Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve The thing thou lovest, though the body starve.

Who works for glory misses oft the goal; Who works for money coins his very soul.

Work for work's sake then, and it well may be That these things shall be added unto thee.

_Kenyon c.o.x._

The Tin Gee Gee

I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade, That place for children's toys, Where you can purchase a dolly or spade For your good little girls and boys.

And as I pa.s.sed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me: O, I am a Colonel in a little c.o.c.ked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee; O, I am a Colonel in a little c.o.c.ked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee.

Then I looked and a little tin soldier I saw, In his little c.o.c.ked hat so fine.

He'd a little tin sword that shone in the light As he led a glittering line of tin hussars, Whose sabers flashed in a manner a la military.

And that little tin soldier he rode at their head, So proud on his tin Gee Gee.

Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed, So I patted his little tin head.

What vexes your little tin soul? said I, And this is what he said: I've been on this stall a very long time, And I'm marked twenty-nine, as you see; Whilst just on the shelf above my head, There's a fellow marked sixty-three.

Now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse, And I'm quite as good as he.

So why mark me at twenty-nine, And him at sixty-three?

There's a pretty little dolly girl over there, And I'm madly in love with she.

But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, She turns up her nose at me, She turns up her little wax nose at me, And carries on with sixty-three.

And, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress; It's a dress I do admire, She has pearly blue eyes that open and shut When worked inside by a wire, And once on a time when the folks had gone, She used to ogle at me.

But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, She turns up her nose at me.

She turns up her little snub nose at me, And carries on with sixty-three.

Cheer up, my little tin man, said I, I'll see what I can do.

You're a fine little fellow, and it's a shame That she should so treat you.

So I took down the label from the shelf above, And I labeled him sixty-three, And I marked the other one twenty-nine, Which was _very, very_ wrong of me, But I felt so sorry for that little tin soul, As he rode on his tin Gee Gee.

Now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride, At being marked sixty-three, And that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more, For he'd risen in life, do you see?

And it's so in this world; for I'm in love With a maiden of high degree; But I am only marked twenty-nine, And the other chap's sixty-three-- And a girl never looks at twenty-nine With a possible sixty-three!

_Fred Cape._

"Tommy"

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

I went into a theater as sober as could be, They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc.

O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"

But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy fall be'ind"; But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face, The Widow's uniform[1] is not the soldierman's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"

But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees!

_Rudyard Kipling._

[Footnote 1: "Widow's uniform"--i. e., uniform of a soldier of Queen Victoria, who was often affectionately called "the Widow of Windsor."]

The Mystic Weaver

The weaver at his loom is sitting, Throws his shuttle to and fro; Foot and treadle, Hand and pedal, Upward, downward, hither, thither, How the weaver makes them go: As the weaver wills they go.

Up and down the web is plying, And across the woof is flying; What a rattling!

What a battling!

What a shuffling!

What a scuffling!

As the weaver makes his shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

Threads in single, threads in double; How they mingle, what a trouble!

Every color, what profusion!

Every motion, what confusion!

While the web and woof are mingling, Signal bells above are jingling,-- Telling how each figure ranges, Telling when the color changes, As the weaver makes his shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

The weaver at his loom is sitting, Throws his shuttle to and fro; 'Mid the noise and wild confusion, Well the weaver seems to know, As he makes his shuttle go, What each motion And commotion, What each fusion And confusion, In the grand result will show.

Weaving daily, Singing gaily, As he makes his busy shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

The weaver at his loom is sitting, Throws his shuttle to and fro; See you not how shape and order From the wild confusion grow, As he makes his shuttle go?-- As the web and woof diminish, Grows beyond the beauteous finish,-- Tufted plaidings, Shapes, and shadings; All the mystery Now is history;-- And we see the reason subtle, Why the weaver makes his shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

See the Mystic Weaver sitting High in heaven--His loom below; Up and down the treadles go; Takes for web the world's long ages, Takes for woof its kings and sages, Takes the n.o.bles and their pages, Takes all stations and all stages,-- Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle; Armies make them scud and scuttle; Web into the woof must flow, Up and down the nations go, As the weaver wills they go; Men are sparring, Powers are jarring, Upward, downward, hither, thither Just like puppets in a show.

Up and down the web is plying, And across the woof is flying, What a battling!

What a rattling!

What a shuffling!

What a scuffling!

As the weaver makes his shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

Calmly see the Mystic Weaver Throw His shuttle to and fro; 'Mid the noise and wild confusion.