“A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss.”

I never understood, I own,

What anybody ( with a soul )

Could mean by offering a Stone

This needless warning not to Roll;

And what inducement there can be

To gather Moss I fail to see.

I'd sooner gather anything,

Like primroses, or news perhaps,

Or even wool ( when suffering

A momentary mental lapse );

But could forego my share of moss,

Nor ever realize the loss.

‘ Tis a botanical disease,

And worthy of remark as such;

Lending a dignity to trees,

To ruins a romantic touch.

A timely adjunct, I've no doubt,

But not worth writing home about.

Of all the Stones I ever met,

In calm repose upon the ground,

I really never found one yet

With a desire to roll around;

Theirs is a stationary role,—

( A joke,— and feeble on the whole ).

But, if I were a stone, I swear

I'd sooner move and view the World

Than sit and grow the greenest hair

That ever Nature combed and curled.

I see no single saving grace

In being known as “Mossyface!”

Instead, I might prove useful for

A weapon in the hand of Crime,

A paperweight, a milestone, or

A missile at Election time;

In each capacity I could

Do quite incalculable good.

When well directed from the Pit,

I might promote a welcome death,

If fortunate enough to hit

Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth,

Who twice each day the playhouse fills,—

( For further Notice See Small Bills ).

At concerts, too, if you prefer,

I could prevent your growing deaf,

By silencing the amateur

Before she reached that upper F.;

Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick,

Restrain some local Kubelik.

Then, human stones, take my advice,

( As you should always do, indeed );

This proverb may be very nice,

But do n't you pay it any heed,

And, tho’ you make the critics cross,

Roll on, and never mind the moss.