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, its according to Hoyle
To cock 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, its easy to blow . . .
Its the hell-served-for-breakfast thats hard.
"You're sick of the game!" Well, now thats 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 damnedest, and fight.
Its the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit, its so easy to quit.
Its the keeping-your chin-up thats hard.
Its easy to cry that you're beaten and die;
Its easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hopes out of sight
Why thats the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and battered and scarred,
Just have one more try its dead easy to die,
Its the keeping-on-living thats hard.
Rhymes of a Rolling Stones. Robert W. Service. Toronto: William Briggs, 1912; New York: Dodd Mead, 1912; London: Fisher Unwin, 1913.