IT DOES NOT PAY

Inscribed to the memory of “Uncle John Mayo,”a Puritan freethinker, sans peur et sans reproche. If my lines were as good as the man, I could discount Milton.

A BENT old man with silvery hair,
A palsied hand and brow of care,
Sat in the shade on a summer day.
And he musingly said with thoughtful air,
It does not pay.

For years he had mixed in the world’s turmoil
Of busy strife, and with manly toil
Had battled many a weary day.
And ever the world was still his foil.
It did not pay.

Partners had swindled and friends betrayed,
Those he had succored refused their aid
When adverse storms rose over the way.
He only said as he sat in the shade,
It does not pay.

No bitterness lurked in the old man’s heart,
Bravely and well he had played his part
In the game of life, and well might say,
As he backward looked on the troubled chart,
It does not pay.

Restfully, peacefully sat he there;
The south wind lifted his thin white hair
As it lightly blew in tender play.
He only said with a patient air,
It does not pay.

Eighty summers their blossoms had shed,
Eighty winters had whitened his head,
He waited his summons day by day;
Life is a feverish dream, he said,
It does not pay.