My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear. 
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m damned if I think it’s fair!

I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done. 
They talk of the money I spent out there—­
They hint at the pace that I went out there—­
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.

So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell. 
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs,
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—­I have that knowledge to sell!

So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around. 
I’m leaving, Pater.  Good-bye to you! 
God bless you, Mater!  I’ll write to you.... 
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!

THE NECESSITARIAN

I know not in Whose hands are laid
  To empty upon earth
From unsuspected ambuscade
  The very Urns of Mirth;

Who bids the Heavenly Lark arise
  And cheer our solemn round—­
The Jest beheld with streaming eyes
  And grovellings on the ground;

Who joins the flats of Time and Chance
  Behind the prey preferred,
And thrones on Shrieking Circumstance
  The Sacredly Absurd,

Till Laughter, voiceless through excess,
  Waves mute appeal and sore,
Above the midriff’s deep distress,
  For breath to laugh once more.

No creed hath dared to hail Him Lord,
  No raptured choirs proclaim,
And Nature’s strenuous Overword
  Hath nowhere breathed His Name.

Yet, it must be, on wayside jape,
  The selfsame Power bestows
The selfsame power as went to shape
  His Planet or His Rose.

THE JESTER

There are three degrees of bliss
At the foot of Allah’s Throne,
And the highest place is his
Who saves a brother’s soul
At peril of his own. 
There is the Power made known!

There are three degrees of bliss
In the Gardens of Paradise,
And the second place is his
Who saves his brother’s soul
By excellent advice. 
For there the Glory lies!

There are three degrees of bliss
And three abodes of the Blest,
And the lowest place is his
Who has saved a soul by a jest
And a brother’s soul in sport ... 
But there do the Angels resort!