From the Newark Evening Star, April 22, 1914.
It never pays to whine, my son;
The world has little time to hear
Complaints from those who have not won
The prizes that are scarce and dear.
The man who haunts a gloomy nook
Is never cheered and seldom praised;
Assume an air and try to look
As if your pay had just been raised.
It never pays, my son, to let
Your neighbor see your empty purse,
Nor will it help your case to fret
When things have gone from bad to worse;
When luck deserts you, as it will,
Conceal the fact from foe and friend
And try to look as if you still
Had money that you wished to spend.
It never pays, my son, to show
That fear is lurking in your breast;
When trouble weighs your spirit low
’Tis time to smile your merriest.
I cannot tell you how to strut
With pride when trouble crushes you,
Or how to laugh while grieving, but
I know it is the thing to do.