Supper in Camp
will appear,” he continued, “and synecdoche and Schenectady were always on the verge of getting mixed when I went to school. My sentiment may be termed obvious, but I want to offer a slight apology on behalf of trouble; it is abused too much. I submit this
“SONG TO TROUBLE
“Here’s to the measure of every man’s worth,
Though when men are wanting it grieves us.
Hearts that are hollow we’re better without,
Hearts that are loyal it leaves us.
“Trouble’s the dowry of every man’s birth,
A nettle adversity flings us;
It yields to the grip of the masterful hand,
When we play coward it stings us.
“Chorus.”
“Don’t say chorus; that’s common.”
“I have to say chorus. My verses don’t speak for themselves, and no one would know it was a chorus if I didn’t explain. Besides, I’m short a line in the chorus, and that is what I’m waiting for to finish the song.
“Chorus:
“Then here’s to the bumper that proves every friend!
And though in the drinking it wrings us,
Here’s to the cup that we drain to the end,
And here’s to—
There I stick. I can’t work out the last line.”
203
