Some sing the songs of the storied past, and some of the lights-o'-love;
Some chant refrains of the underworld, and some of the world above,
Let each man sing of the things he feels in a voice that is clear and strong,
That each shall achieve the work of his heart and add to his nation's song.
For there's often a twist of the master-hand in the build of a hodman's brain
That his fellows may fail to understand if he speak not the trite and plain;
And an inexpensive and puerile wit may gird at the thought in rhyme,
Unaware of the message enwrapt in it, addressed to a broader time.
For many a body is like a hearse -- its passenger dead within;
And there's many a mouth to gibe at a verse with a sneering, cynical grin,
While its fellow, bred on the same coarse fare, must suffer the jeers inane,
For beneath the grime of his sordid life is a shoot of the golden vein.
Yea, a man may stand in a dingy bar and traffic in beer and rum,
And the soul of the man go wand'ring far -- though the voice of his soul be dumb --
Apart from the barman's meaner self, a thing of another sphere,
Abhorring the stale tobacco smoke, and loathing the smell of beer.
For there's many a good sea-song been writ in a city garret bare;
And some have scaled the Olympian heights at the head of a creaky stair;
And some have sat on an office stool and dreamed of the deeper things,
While the chrysalis-soul of the man's desire bides ever with folded wings.
Let each man sing of the things he feels, in a voice that is sure and strong,
That each shall achieve the work of his heart, and add to his nation's song;
That the dream of a miner touch the stars, and a barman hear the bees,
And the cabman's soul go out to the bush, and the pawn-broker's to the seas!
First published in The Bulletin, 16 January 1908
