My job, oft called the lot austere,
And wept upon in countless rhymes,
Is well enough as things are here,
And even has its charm at times.
I wonder if those others made
Their loud lament a stock-in-trade
Because the lamentation paid!
Most fortunate in our despair,
Whate'er our present trials be
We need but set them to an air,
And joy will follow with the fee.
What other craftsmen, being rid
By some foul hag, when they have chid
May trade the chiding for a quid?
Have I a headache, down I sit
And set it forth on paper white
(On one side, mark you, fairly writ);
My dentist hurts me, over-night
My anguish in sly verse I tell,
Each poignant throb, each piercing yell.
In that shape troubles always sell.
Where some can never part with woe,
Mine brings me cash whene'er I will.
I welcome, say, a corn or so
To help to foot the baker's bill.
I Care should some one day intent
On staying, I'd not have her sent --
I'd make my lodger pay the rent!
First published in The Bulletin, 15 August 1918
