The Luckless Man
I heard a fellow say, this morn,
“I’ve had hard luck since I was born.”
Yet he was fixed with hands and feet,
And health so good ’twas hard to beat.
While he bemoaned his gloomy fate,
And tried to keep his grouch on straight,
And while some maudlin tears he shed,
An ailing cripple forged ahead,
Ambition glowing in his eyes,
And gathered in a handsome prize.
A blind man, groping in the dark,
In human annals made his mark.
A sick man, toiling with his pen,
Produced a book that drew from men
So loud a burst of honest praise,
As cheered the balance of his days.
A thousand brave, undaunted chaps,
Borne down by grievous handicaps,
Were struggling up life’s rugged steep,
Too full of hopeful plans to weep.
How pitiful the man who stands,
With active lungs and idle hands,
Complaining of the luck he’s had,
Since he was but a knee-high lad!
By Walt Mason (1862 - 1939)
I heard a fellow say, this morn,
“I’ve had hard luck since I was born.”
Yet he was fixed with hands and feet,
And health so good ’twas hard to beat.
While he bemoaned his gloomy fate,
And tried to keep his grouch on straight,
And while some maudlin tears he shed,
An ailing cripple forged ahead,
Ambition glowing in his eyes,
And gathered in a handsome prize.
A blind man, groping in the dark,
In human annals made his mark.
A sick man, toiling with his pen,
Produced a book that drew from men
So loud a burst of honest praise,
As cheered the balance of his days.
A thousand brave, undaunted chaps,
Borne down by grievous handicaps,
Were struggling up life’s rugged steep,
Too full of hopeful plans to weep.
How pitiful the man who stands,
With active lungs and idle hands,
Complaining of the luck he’s had,
Since he was but a knee-high lad!
By Walt Mason (1862 - 1939)
