But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, See hopes and friendships dead about him lie-- Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm, Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny; And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, Girt only in the armor God hath meant For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate Can say to God and man: "I am content."
There is a certain Yankee phrase I always have revered, Yet, somehow, in these modern days, It's almost disappeared; It was the usage years ago, But nowadays it's got To be regarded coarse and low To answer: "I guess not!"
The height of fashion called the pink Affects a British craze-- Prefers "I fancy" or "I think" To that time-honored phrase; But here's a Yankee, if you please, That brands the fashion rot, And to all heresies like these He answers, "I--guess not!"--
When Chaucer, Wycliff, and the rest Express their meaning thus, I guess, if not the very best, It's good enough for us! Why! shall the idioms of our speech Be banished and forgot For this vain trash which moderns teach? Well, no, sir; I guess not!
There's meaning in that homely phrase No other words express-- No substitute therefor conveys Such unobtrusive stress. True Anglo-Saxon speech, it goes Directly to the spot, And he who hears it always knows The worth of "I--guess--not!"
Good old days--dear old days When my heart beat high and bold-- When the things of earth seemed full of life, And the future a haze of gold! Oh, merry was I that winter night, And gleeful our little one's din, And tender the grace of my darling's face As we watched the new year in. But a voice--a spectre's, that mocked at love-- Came out of the yonder hall; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 't was the solemn clock That ruefully croaked to all. Yet what knew we of the griefs to be In the year we longed to greet? Love--love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream I fancied might never fleet!
But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom, And these were the words it spake, "Tick-tock, tick-tock"--and they seemed to mock A heart about to break.
'T is new-year's eve, and again I watch In the old familiar place, And I'm thinking again of that old time when I looked on a dear one's face. Never a little one hugs my knee And I hear no gleeful shout-- I am sitting alone by the old hearthstone, Watching the old year out. But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom That solemnly calls to me: "Tick-tock, tick-tock!"--for so the clock Tells of a life to be; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!"-'tis so the clock Tells of eternity.