The Quitter

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,

    And Death looks you bang in the eye,

And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle

    To cock your revolver and . . . die.

But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"

    And self-dissolution is barred.

In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .

    It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.

    You're young and you're brave and you're bright.

"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,

    Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.

It's the plugging away that will win you the day,

    So don't be a piker, old pard!

Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:

    It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;

    It's easy to crawfish and crawl;

But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight —

    Why, that's the best game of them all!

And though you come out of each gruelling bout,

    All broken and beaten and scarred,

Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die,

    It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.