Joseph Furphy: Verses about Faith

Life is a Poem, short or long,
A dismal Dirge, or jovial Song,
A Psalm of faith, or Lay of Pride,
One stanza by each year supplied.

And thy sweet Hymn of love and truth,
A carol of unfading youth,
Which God hath given thee to rehearse,
Enlightening others' chequered way,
Is strengthened by a further verse
Upon the gracious April day.

Opposed to Jewish Temple-rites,
Strange to the lore of Greece,
That message comes from starry heights,
A key to lasting Peace.
What-e'er our creed, we own its thrill —
'Glory to God; to men good will!'

Though Art may strive for utterance yet,
And Science grope her way,
A wider zone of thought is set
Where shines the perfect day;
A motive passing earthly skill —
'Glory to God; to men good will!'

For let the wise and prudent know,
As trustful children would,
That oracle of long ago
Contains the Greatest Good;
Unvex'd by doubt, unmix'd with ill —
'Glory to God; to men good will!'

A wiser world grows sick of strife,
Of mockery dearly bought;
And man, achieving truer life,
And brave, unselfish thought,
That high behest shall yet fulfil —
'Glory to God; to men good will!'

So lies millennial peace in reach,
While empires rise and fall;
For, age on age, and new to each,
That glad prophetic call
Comes pealing down the cycles still —
'Glory to God; to men good will!'

When the great Creator fashion'd us, and saw that we were good,
He commission'd us to dominate the planet as it stood.
But His ordinance meets denial still, and peace remains unknown,
For the Boer is always with us, calling certain lands his own.

Yet the Lord has given us grace to scent a Good Thing from afar —
Are we not our brother's keeper? Most assuredly we are!
So we seek to bear his burden, and benignly take him in,
Though he fight like forty devils in his ignorance and sin.

Once the Boers of Athens met us on the veldt of Marathon,
Where they fired upon our ambulance, and consequently won.
And the Maccabean Dutchmen, by their sniping tactics mean,
Smote our absent-minded beggars round Jerusalemfontein.

The commandos of Arminius denied us land or loot;
Not to speak of that old Dopper, Oom Bruce of Bannockspruit.
At Sempachstrom, at Gransonkop, we met the laager's Swiss,
And they mowed us by the acre, through their white flag artifice.

O the countless tons of swaddies, O the money worth of tools,
We have spent to prove our doctrine — that the Big Battalion rules!
Yet the stolid Boer confronts us still, in dirt and Scripture strong,
While our dividends evaporate — How long? O Lord! how long?

Let us beg the workman's shilling, let us smell our hats in prayer,
For the swift and lasting triumph of the multi-millionaire.
Let us reap the fields we sowed not, gather where we have not strawed
Since your wily operator is the noblest work of God.

Bravely sings the long-hair'd Alfred, 'Forward, forward let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of 'Change,'
O be sure the Good Time Coming shall attain its glorious birth
When the patriot owns his blunder, and the boodler owns the earth!

('Bulletin,' March, 1900.)

Are you, like me, a peevish brat,
With feelings extra-fine?
Are you disposed to whip the cat
When misadventure lays your flat?
Then paste this memo in your hat —
A Man Should Never Whine.

The axiom is no safeguard rare,
Nor talisman divine;
For, deaf to bounce as well as prayer,
Grim Fate will never turn a hair.
But still the principle is there —
A Man Should Never Whine.

When 'Answers' spurns your doggerel lay
(He often baskets mine)
And balks you of renown and pay,
Squirm not, but laugh, and darkly say,
'Ha! tyrant! there will come a day!'
A Bard Should Never Whine.

Should Gladys freeze you from her sight,
Don't languish or repine;
But let her know, in terms polite,
That she has made your future bright;
Then marry Ermyntrude for spite —
A Bloque Should Never Whine.

A killing frost may nip your buds
(There's Wolsey as a sign);
You may forego your stylish duds,
And trade away your pin and studs,
To live on bandicooted spuds;
But you Must Never Whine.

Religiously, your cake is dough —
You haven't walk'd the line.
Peter won't know you from a crow;
So your address must be 'Below,'
Where Socialists and such-like go;
Still You Must Never Whine.

But even should Repentance come,
Don't supplicate and pine.
Seek out the corybantic scrum,
And caper round the mighty drum,
And make Salvation fairly hum —
A Saint Should Never Whine.

Beneath such petty details lies
Calm Nature's great design,
That we on stepping-stones should rise;
And any decent chap who tries
To score some points before he dies
Can Surely Never Whine.

Things standing thus, it is not nice
To rate yourself a swine;
Just let this argument suffice:
An abject whimper cuts no ice,
But only tends to lower your price —
A Man Should Never Whine.

You argue — as sympathy governs your bias —
That Wisdom distributes the capon and crust,
Indulging the sinful, and stinting the pious,
Or starving the wicked, and fattening the just.
You are wrong to the Evil One; hear what I say
There are ruinous virtues, and virtues that pay.

If your purpose be saving your soul and your bacon —
Fruition forthwith, and a sweet by-and-bye;
If your definite project stand clear and unshaken
A fatman on earth, and a seraph on high
In working this out let it still be your lay
There are ruinous virtues, and virtues that pay.

Such virtues are not of the workshop or cloister:
They test every act by the way it pans out;
They prompt you to seize on the world as your oyster,
Inserting our knife with a spirit devout.
For strait is the portal, and narrow the way
Representing the route of the virtues that pay.

Men as good as yourself, or most probably better,
Have gone to the rear, after many a try —
A permanent wage-slave, a usurers' debtor
Reduced to the motto of 'Root, hog or die,'
But their handicap dates from an earlier day,
When they failed in espousals of virtues that pay.

There is nothing outre in the man with the bluey;
He started, like you, for a goal undisclosed
But never in life can he come within coo-ee —
Though he may reach a goal, (with the vowels transposed)
And a similar Sheol gapes fair in your way,
If you turn out deficient in virtues that pay.

You must race, like St. Paul —you must race for the dollar —
No pause of compunction must ever intrude:
You must watch, you must pray, never missing a collar
The course is severe, and the company good.
You must reverence the Thrift-God, and earnestly pray
To be grounded and built up in virtues that pay.

By this means you will serve the Almighty and Mammon,
And die in a state of salvation and wealth;
When the clergy, without a suggestion of gammon,
Will furnish your soul with a clean bill of health.
So you'll sweep through the gates in your spotless array
A shining example of Virtues that pay.