Classic Poem

A SIMPLE RULE OF CONDUCT FOR THE YOUNG

My dearest boy, become a fool;
In all things then you will succeed!

This was a prudent mother's rule
When first her son the words could heed:
My dearest boy, become a fool;
In all things then you will succeed!

Sense is a danger to Success,
Which nearly always, merciless,
Takes care that Sense is shown the door.
Wit but annoys with ill-address,
Where Folly pleases more and more
And never gives a worm distress,
But slinks on sidelong to the fore,
Until, while wiser men ignore,
Presto! he wins the longed-for meed.
Ay, wit is but a two-edged tool
The devil must have forged indeed.
My dearest boy, become a fool;
In all things then you will succeed!

While Folly, sleek and fair to see,
Is resting on an eider bed
And flourishes in luxury,
Poor Wit lies pale and ill bested
On hay and straw most woefully;
Sore vexed and sadly underfed,
He gnaws a crust of mouldy bread.
Then fly from Wit as from the pest;
Upon his lips there smirks a jest
Which for all fools is poison dire,
For that fool most whom all the rest
For might and rank do most admire:
And if the dart should stick — what 's worse — in
The thin skin of some holy person,
Which — God mend! — oft occurs indeed,
No man will give, we 're all agreed,
A twopence for Sir Wit again;
For hate, in hearts of saintly breed
Enkindled, only pauses when
It sees its writhing victim feed
The temporal flames, and bids him then
To flames eternal straightway speed.
No, my good lad, obey the rule,
Be a dull Jack, a dolt, a fool;
In all things then you will succeed!

How right was that old lady, lo!
And how we should revere her name!
The Education Board, I trow,
No easier, better course can show
To-day for winning wealth and fame.
How well she knew the world, that dame!
If Corydon, poor studious boy,
Had followed but her son's example,
He 'd stand by now in Fortune's temple.
Those words are gold without alloy,
God keep her blessed soul in joy!