Rhymes Of A Rolling Stone Part 9

See! there's an arch of gold above.

Now, let me rest a little while -- _LOOKING TO G.o.d AND LOVE . . . AND LOVE. . . ."_

Dreams Are Best

I just think that dreams are best, Just to sit and fancy things; Give your gold no acid test, Try not how your silver rings; Fancy women pure and good, Fancy men upright and true: Fortressed in your solitude, Let Life be a dream to you.

For I think that Thought is all; Truth's a minion of the mind; Love's ideal comes at call; As ye seek so shall ye find.

But ye must not seek too far; Things are never what they seem: Let a star be just a star, And a woman -- just a dream.

O you Dreamers, proud and pure, You have gleaned the sweet of life!

Golden truths that shall endure Over pain and doubt and strife.

I would rather be a fool Living in my Paradise, Than the leader of a school, Sadly sane and weary wise.

O you Cynics with your sneers, Fallen brains and hearts of bra.s.s, Tweak me by my foolish ears, Write me down a simple a.s.s!

I'll believe the real "you"

Is the "you" without a taint; I'll believe each woman too, But a slightly damaged saint.

Yes, I'll smoke my cigarette, Vestured in my garb of dreams, And I'll borrow no regret; All is gold that golden gleams.

So I'll charm my solitude With the faith that Life is blest, Brave and n.o.ble, bright and good, . . .

Oh, I think that dreams are best!

The Quitter

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle To c.o.c.k your revolver and . . . die.

But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"

And self-dissolution is barred.

In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .

It's the h.e.l.l-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.

You're young and you're brave and you're bright.

"You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal, Buck up, do your d.a.m.nedest, and fight.

It's the plugging away that will win you the day, So don't be a piker, old pard!

Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die; It's easy to crawfish and crawl; But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight -- Why, that's the best game of them all!

And though you come out of each gruelling bout, All broken and beaten and scarred, Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die, It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

The Cow-Juice Cure

The clover was in blossom, an' the year was at the June, When Flap-jack Billy hit the town, likewise O'Flynn's saloon.

The frost was on the fodder an' the wind was growin' keen, When Billy got to seein' snakes in Sullivan's shebeen.

Then in meandered Deep-hole Dan, once comrade of the cup: "Oh Billy, for the love of Mike, why don't ye sober up?

I've got the gorgus rec.i.p.ay, 'tis smooth an' slick as silk -- Jest quit yer strangle-holt on hooch, an' irrigate with milk.

Lackteeal flooid is the lubrication you require; Yer nervus frame-up's like a bunch of snarled piano wire.

You want to get it coated up with addypose tishoo, So's it will work elastic-like, an' milk's the dope for you."

Well, Billy was complyable, an' in a month it's strange, That cow-juice seemed to oppyrate a most amazin' change.

"Call up the water-wagon, Dan, an' book my seat," sez he.

"'Tis mighty queer," sez Deep-hole Dan, "'twas just the same with me."

They shanghaied little Tim O'Shane, they cached him safe away, An' though he objurgated some, they "cured" him night an' day; An' pretty soon there came the change amazin' to explain: "I'll never take another drink," sez Timothy O'Shane.

They tried it out on Spike Muldoon, that toper of renown; They put it over Grouch McGraw, the terror of the town.

They roped in "tanks" from far and near, an' every test was sure, An' like a flame there ran the fame of Deep-hole's Cow-juice Cure.

"It's mighty queer," sez Deep-hole Dan, "I'm puzzled through and through; It's only milk from Riley's ranch, no other milk will do."

An' it jest happened on that night with no predictive plan, He left some milk from Riley's ranch a-settin' in a pan; An' picture his amazement when he poured that milk next day -- There in the bottom of the pan a dozen "colours" lay.

"Well, what d'ye know 'bout that," sez Dan; "Gosh ding my dasted eyes, We've been an' had the Gold Cure, Bill, an' none of us was wise.

The milk's free-millin' that's a cinch; there's colours everywhere.

Now, let us figger this thing out -- how does the dust git there?

'Gold from the gra.s.s-roots down', they say -- why, Bill! we've got it cold -- Them cows what nibbles up the gra.s.s, jest nibbles up the gold.

We're blasted, bloomin' millionaires; dissemble an' lie low: We'll follow them gold-bearin' cows, an' prospect where they go."

An' so it came to pa.s.s, fer weeks them miners might be found A-sneakin' round on Riley's ranch, an' snipin' at the ground; Till even Riley stops an' stares, an' presently allows: "Them boys appear to take a mighty interest in cows."

An' night an' day they shadowed each auriferous bovine, An' panned the gra.s.s-roots on their trail, yet nivver gold they seen.

An' all that season, secret-like, they worked an' nothin' found; An' there was colours in the milk, but none was in the ground.

An' mighty desperate was they, an' down upon their luck, When sudden, inspirationlike, the source of it they struck.

An' where d'ye think they traced it to? it grieves my heart to tell -- In the black sand at the bottom of that wicked milkman's _WELL_.

While the Bannock Bakes

Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me; I've got to watch the bannock bake -- how restful is the air!

You'd little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three, Though where I don't exactly know, and don't precisely care.

The man-size mountains palisade us round on every side; The river is a-flop with fish, and ripples silver-clear; The midnight sunshine brims yon cleft -- we think it's the Divide; We'll get there in a month, maybe, or maybe in a year.

It doesn't matter, does it, pal? We're of that breed of men With whom the world of wine and cards and women disagree; Your trouble was a roofless game of poker now and then, And "raising up my elbow", that's what got away with me.

We're merely "Undesirables", artistic more or less; My h.o.r.n.y hands are Chopin-wise; you quote your Browning well; And yet we're fooling round for gold in this d.a.m.ned wilderness: The joke is, if we found it, we would both go straight to h.e.l.l.