Classic Poem

A song in my heart keeps on ringing today,
Though I fear me the old cry of “fudge”!
Yet a bard has one merit—he will have his say—
And my song is A Song of the Drudge.

Yes, even the toilers in kitchen and hall—
The many who strike not nor shirk,—
I fancy a halo encircles them all—
The crown of the Honor of Work!

For there must be some who will gird up the skirt,
And take up the tasks that are mean,
And valiantly conquer the kingdom of dirt
That the rest of mankind may be clean.

For the scavenger's hoe, and his pail, and his broom,
Are the mystical scepters of health;
And nothing beside them can long keep the bloom
On the cheeks of the children of wealth.

Since Prometheus got up that first early fire—
The precursor of many a smudge—
How many have swallowed their ease or their ire
To do that first task of the drudge!

And how many by that fire have roasted themselves,
With their beefsteaks have sizzled and broiled,
To see that provision for us—lucky elves—
Was properly stewed, baked, or boiled!

Ah, the drudge! It is he who lifts up from the earth
Many lives into fortunate ways;
And it may be his work is sometimes of more worth
Than the poet's who sings in his praise.

There's our brother, the “Hayseed,” who lives on the farm,
With his plow and his pitchfork and flail,
Who must toil on, or cities would soon come to harm,
Should the “Hayseed” or hay ever fail!

Dear me! It is nice to be called Ph. D.,
Or letters of any such ilk,
Yet if every one boasted a college degree,
There would still be the cattle to milk.

O Drudges! Look up to the heavenly blue,
For your honors we may not rehearse
When post-graduate titles are showered upon you
At commencement of God's universe.

So, ladies, one moment from whist and from wine,
And you—minister, doctor, or judge,—
Join all in a toast to this hero of mine:—
Long life to our brother—the Drudge!