Category: The Detroit Times

From The Detroit Times, March 3, 1914. By Berton Braley.

He’d read all the dope on attending to work
    And toiling to suit your employer;
He knew that to loaf or to laze or to shirk
    Was quite an ambition destroyer;
So he plunged into work with a zest and a vim
    And he did more than double his share of it;
He needed a raise, for his wages were slim,
    But he knew that the boss would take care of it!

For hadn’t the books made this simple fact plain—
    That people would recognize talent;
That if you would work with your might and your main
    The boss, with a manner most gallant,
Would give you a raise, though you said not a word,
    To show you were worthy of credit;
So he toiled and he sweated, but nothing occurred
    And life didn’t go as he’d read it!

The boss was aware of his merit, all right,
    But he said, “Why the deuce should I raise him
So long as he’s willing to work day and night
    For what his position now pays him?”
But weary with waiting, the worker grew wise;
    He said to himself, “Why, dod rot it!
These books on success are a bundle of lies”—
    So he struck for a raise—and he got it!

From The Detroit Times, February 13, 1914. By Berton Braley.

When you care for a girl—why, the world is a place
    That was only created for holding her,
And the day’s but a light that illumines her face
    And the night but a mantle enfolding her;
And when you are working or when you’re at play
    Your mind will not turn from the theme of her;
You muse and you think of her always by day,
    And when it comes night-time you dream of her!

Where you care for a girl—and the girl cares for you,
    Life seems like a pilgrimage glorious,
Where the breezes are sweet and the sky’s always blue
    And love is forever victorious;
When you care for a girl and the girl doesn’t care,
    Well, life’s dull and gray—there’s no doubt of it,
And it’s hard to keep on with a gay-hearted air
    When the light and the joy have gone out of it!

From The Detroit Times, February 2, 1914. By Berton Braley.

I wish that I could be
    An old standpatter
To look around and see
    Nothing the matter.
All new thoughts to repel
    With brain that’s flaccid,
And think that all is well,
    Serene and placid.

What calm, what peace is his;
    He’s well contented;
To him all progress is
    A thing demented;
The world has gone ahead,
    And all things show it;
Forward the age has sped—
    He doesn’t know it.

And so he drifts along
    Through all the flurry;
To him there’s nothing wrong,
    So he should worry;
To me life’s sometimes grim
    And all things matter,
And yet I envy him,
    The old standpatter.

From The Detroit Times, January 29, 1914. By Berton Braley.

The Bandit ravaged through the land
And left his mark on every hand,
For desolation lined the path
Which he had made in greed and wrath;
He looted, pillaged, far and wide,
The sweet and smiling country side;
He spoiled and wasted like a flame
And people trembled at his name;
His glutton cravings to allay
He did not hesitate to slay.
Not bravely, in fair open fight,
But meanly, foully in the night!

At last the people rose in ire
And trailed him on through muck and mire,
By stream and copse, by hill and dale,
They followed grimly on his trail
Until that final moment when
They had him cornered in his den.
They brought him forth with choking smoke
Yet, as he stumbled out, he spoke
And said, “By all the rules, I swear
This sort of treatment isn’t fair;
You show no just respect for me
Nor for this cave, my property;
You are not acting as you should”—
But some one shot him where he stood.
“He may be right,” the men agreed;
“Perhaps we did not give due heed
To all the rules and all the laws—
But he’d no right to howl, because
He plundered on a ruthless plan
And broke each law of God and man;
His hands with blood and gore were red;
We reckon he is better dead.”

(I wonder if the trusts and such
Which have us strongly in their clutch
Might, by some distant chance, be able
To see the moral of this fable.)

From The Detroit Times, January 23, 1914. By Berton Braley.

I go to the bank and I draw a check
    And think I have money to last awhile,
But my hopes all crash in a total wreck
    As money melts in the swiftest style,
For somebody borrows a yen or two
    And somebody comes with last year’s bill,
Or my clothes wear out or the rent comes due
    And leaves me nary a single mill.

When somebody pays for the work I’ve done
    I grin and chuckle with soul care-free,
“Well, now I’ll certainly have some fun—“
    But somebody comes with a C. O. D.;
Or if a saving account I crave
    And plan on watching the roll grow fat,
The whole amount that I meant to save
    Must pay insurance—or things like that!

They’re always waiting to grab my roll;
    I never manage to get ahead;
I’m either paying for this year’s coal
    Or last year’s horse—which is cold and dead;
Coin never lasts as I thought it would,
    It always goes at the least excuse;
It never does me a bit of good;
    I try to save it—but what’s the use!

From The Detroit Times, December 30, 1913. By Berton Braley.

I’ve been reading of slaughter and battle,
    Of glory and gumption and gore,
Of raids upon foemen and cattle
    And hair-raising stunts by the score.
Of heroes of mightiest bravery,
    Of villains with records unsavory,
Of righteousness, evil and knavery,
    And plenty of olden time lore.

I’ve been reading some lovely romances
    And tales of adventure, as well,
Of men who took uttermost chances
    And braved any fate that befell.
I’ve reveled, with eyes that were glistery,
    In fairy tales, magic and mystery,
Theology, logic and history,
    And poems that none can excel.

And I read all of this in one volume,
    One volume I’d never looked through
Till I plunged in its close-printed column—
    And its treasures lay bare to my view.

So I learned, after decades unheeding,
    What wise men have long been conceding,
That the Bible is chuck full of reading,
    And mighty good stuff it is, too!

From The Detroit Times, November 25, 1913. By Berton Braley.

We Old Men try to fight them back
    With all our craft and all our skill,
With every trick and every knack
    Of brain and heart and soul and Will.
    But oh, the Young Men follow still;
They ask and will not be denied.
    And though they never mean us ill,
We feel them thrusting us aside!

Upon our olden gods we call
    And to our ancient shrines we cling
But still without our castled wall
    The Young Men’s voices clearly ring.
    Upon their heads our wrath we fling,
Our cannon-shot upon them rain.
    Our strategy and wiles we bring
Against their ranks—but all in vain!

Behind our barriers we stand
    (Experience and Age and Power),
But Youth lays siege on every hand
    And crowds us closer every hour;
The young men shell our moated tower,
    They batter down each wall and gate,
And though we glare and though we glower,
    At last we must capitulate.

From The Detroit Times, November 12, 1913. By Berton Braley.

It once was weapon of the strong,
    The daring and the bold,
Who left the dull and toiling throng
    To seek the land of gold;
It made all men of equal height
    In realms beyond the law;
It spoke in many a fair-fought fight
    Where life is rough and raw.

It rendered justice as was mete
    ‘Twixt Ghibbeline or Guelph,
Where each man stood upon his feet
    And made his law himself;
It had some glory at its best,
    Some glamor of romance
Amid those winners of the West
    Who dared to take a chance.

It once was weapon of the brave,
    But in this later time
The coward and the slinking knave
    Have made it black with crime;
It is the weapon of the pack
    That stalks, by night, its prey,
Then shoots the victim in the back
    And loots—and runs away!

It is the comrade and the mate
    Of those who beat and slug,
Of murderers degenerate,
    The gangster and the thug!