“THERE'S DUTY, FRIEND, TO JOG WITH ARM IN ARM”

There's duty, friend, to jog with arm in arm

Through these dark streets; there's kindliness indeed,

And there's the hope a little more to weed

Our own small patch of life which the tares harm;

There's patience for the folly of the earth;

There's pity for the poor who suffer wrong;

There's honour for the striving and the strong

— But ah, dear friend of mine, where is the mirth?

Where's the old jollity of everyday

That makes a holiday of common things

Because they all are shared by us aright,

The trivial daily work and happenings

Having a sort of fervour and delight,

And the sun rising, even, a different way?