What do they matter, our headlong… Think ye our glory and gain will p… By the cheers of our Victory will… If by the Victory all we mean is… Is the pomp and power of a glitt’r…

I thought I would go daft when Jo… He was my first, and wise beyond h… For nigh a hundred nights I cried… Until my weary eyes burned up my t… Willie and Rosie tried to comfort…

A pote is sure a goofy guy; He ain’t got guts like you or I To tell the score; He ain’t goy gumption 'nuff to kno… The game of life’s to get the doug…

He gives me such a bold and curiou… That young American across the wa… As if he’d like to put me in a boo… (Fancies himself a poet, so they s… Ah well! He’ll make no “document”…

Mary and I were twenty—two When we were wed; A well—matched pair, right smart t… The town’s folk said. For twenty years I have been true

Of all the men I ever knew The tinkingest was Uncle Jim; If there were any chores to do We couldn’t figure much on him. He’d have a thinking job on hand,

Up into the sky I stare; All the little stars I see; And I know that God is there O, how lonely He must be! Me, I laugh and leap all day,

The Shorter Catechism I burned my fingers on the stove And wept with bitterness; But poor old Auntie Maggie strove To comfort my distress.

His portrait hung upon the wall. Oh how at us he used to stare. Each Sunday when I made my call!… And when one day it wasn’t there, Quite quick I seemed to understan…

Beyond the Rocking Bridge it lies… The huts where hive and swarm and… Through all the night each cabin l… A blood—red heliograph of lust, a… From Dawson Town, soft skulking d…

Dusting my books I spent a busy d… Not ancient toes, time—hallowed an… but modern volumes, classics in th… whose makers now are numbered with… Men of a generation more than mine…

Since I have come to years sedate I see with more and more acumen The bitter irony of Fate, The vanity of all things human. Why, just to—day some fellow said,

To hell with Government I say; I’m sick of all the piddling pack. I’d like to scram, get clean away, And never, nevermore come back. With heart of hope I long to go

Because I’ve come to eighty odd, I must prepare to meet you, God. What should I do? I cannot pray, I have no pious words to say; And though the Bible I might read…

I keep collecting books I know I’ll never, never read; My wife and daughter tell me so, And yet I never head. “Please make me,” says some wistfu…