From The Seattle Star, November 18, 1912. By Berton Braley. I have heartened your soul for battle, I have turned your face to the fray, I have stirred your blood to a seething flood with many a valiant lay; I have made your songs of conflict and slogans to lead you on, I have chanted you forth to victory when all your hope was gone. You march to the beat of songs I sing, they comfort your sleep at night And yet you call me a weakling soul because I do not fight! If I go forth to the battle field and join in the conflict there I am only one of a thousand men who does his little share But the songs I make in my sheltered tent as I toil with brain and pen Are the breath that fans the fighting flame in the hearts of a thousand men. And, though I take not to the field or stand in the battle line The word that carries the warriors on to victory is mine! I have lifted your souls from fell defeat to battle again—and win I have sounded a clarion call of faith amid the fighting din What matters it if my hand is weak when I make ten thousand strong By the thrill of a magic chant of words and the rhythm of a song? I keep the private’s courage high, the captain’s eyes alight— And yet you call me a weakling soul because I do not fight!
Tag: Berton Braley
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The Singer’s Apology
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Responsibility
From The Seattle Star, November 7, 1912. By Berton Braley. Well, after all, the whole thing’s up to Us, However we may try to shift the shame, It’s you and I that really are to blame If things are in a tangle and a muss. If Might is Right, if Goodness yields to Greed, If Mammon thrives, and God is quite forgot, If evil reigns in many a beauty spot, It is because We have not taken heed. The wrongs that live are those we tolerate Because we have not tried to make them right; If Darkness rules where Justice calls for Light, If Love is trampled out by Wrath and Hate, If little children toll and women slave, If some men starve while others feast and waste, If Truth is lost and Liberty disgraced, If millions fast from childhood to the grave, It is because, for all our noise and fuss, We stay content with matters as they are, We have the final choice to make or mar— Well, after all, the whole thing’s up to Us!
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Lest We Forget
From The Tacoma Times, October 23, 1912. By Berton Braley. While the contest rumbles all about, While the leaders hurry to and fro, While the speakers agitate and shout, While the streams of oratory flow, ‘Mid the talk that no one understands, ‘Mid the noise that all the country fills, Don’t forget the weary hearts and hands, Don’t forget the children in the mills! While we talk of tariff and of trust, Dream of referendum and recall, Down amid the clamor and the dust Childish toilers labor till they fall. While the war for ballots rages on, While the keen excitement ever thrills, Don’t forget the faces pale and wan, Don’t forget the children in the mills! These, who never know the joy of play, These, whose youth is filched away by greed, Turn to us their faces pinched and gray Asking us for comfort in their need. So, amidst the tumult and the press, Don’t forget the cruel toil that kills; Hear them moan in utter weariness, “Don’t forget the children in the mills!”
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The Plea of the Ordinary Reader
From The Seattle Star, October 21, 1912. By Berton Braley. I feel I am needing a change in my reading; I weary of tales which describe The poor east side tailor who lives in his squalor Amid all the rest of his tribe; I also am weary of stories more cheery Which chiefly—yes, wholly—concern The beautiful heiress with gowns made in Paris And the youth who has money to burn. I long for narrations of people whose stations Are not so extreme either way. The people I meet in the office and street in The course of my business and play; I don’t care for stories of wealth and its glories Nor tales of acute misery; I long in my fiction to find the depiction Of commonplace people—like me!
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The Disappearing Balance
From The Seattle Star, October 14, 1912. By Berton Braley. I never can figure my bank account out, I’m always in trouble and always in doubt, And just when I think I have lots to go on The bank sends a notice—“account overdrawn.” I don’t understand it; I fuss and I fret, But I can’t make the bank “get me,” you bet. They point to their figures and I must remit, Although I can’t see any reason for it. I’m sure I am right in the balance I claim, But they make me come through when they ask, just the same. And they smile in a way condescending and bland, When I say that their system I can’t understand; For this is the puzzle my brain cells to vex— Why doesn’t my money keep pace with my checks?
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The Actor
From The Tacoma Times, October 11, 1912. By Berton Braley. We laugh at the way he swaggers and poses And talks of his triumphs in various parts, We grin at the tale which he grandly discloses, And yet—there is sympathy deep in our hearts; For his is a life which is brief in its glory And long, oh, so long, in its struggle and strain! Who minds if he boasts of a fame transitory And tells of it over and over again? For when on the stage he is placing before us The passion and beauty and wonder of life, The work of the masters who never can bore us, The love and the laughter, the stress and the strife. He makes us forget, for the time, all the real, The everyday world, in the world of romance; He wakes us again to our youthful ideal When love was a melody, life was a dance! And this he must do, though his own heart is breaking, Though life has been cruel and fortune a jade; Though fame stays a day and is years in the making, The “play is the thing,” and the role must be played! He serves us full well where the footlights are gleaming, So give him his “bravo,” his glad curtain call, And leave him in peace to his boasts and his dreaming— He’s earned them, in truth, and he’s paid for them all!
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Look Who’s Here!
From The Tacoma Times, September 28, 1912. By Berton Braley. Now we are back to the months with the “r” in ‘em; Now are the bivalves again to the fore; Restaurant cooks on the menus are starrin’ ‘em; Oysters are back to their glory once more, Raw on the halfshell or stewed most deliciously, Skewered with bacon or temptingly fried, Ah, how we welcome them! How expeditiously Food such as this is invited inside! Doubtless there’s plenty of germs to avoid in ‘em, Microbes of everything under the sun, Cholera, ptomaine and double typhoid in ‘em; Still, now the season again has begun, We will take chances on what we may meet in ‘em, Spite of the warnings of doctor and sage. Oysters are bully, and folks who have eaten’ ‘em Frequently live to a noble old age
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Hospitality
From The Seattle Star, September 26, 1912. By Berton Braley. Jenkins spent his money, Took me to a show, Took me out to dinner Where the big guns go, Bought me smokes in plenty, Blew his money free; Still I didn’t like his Hospitality. Barney gave me greeting Free of “froth and foam,” Smiled and beamed upon me, Took me to his home; Made me feel at ease there With his family; That’s the true and honest Hospitality. ‘Tisn’t in the splendor, ‘Tisn’t in the style, But in thoughtful kindness And the welcome smile. Money cannot buy it, Not for any fee; It’s a gift of nature— Hospitality.
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Burglars
From The Seattle Star, September 25, 1912. By Berton Braley. The burglar in the story book Is really quite a noble crook. He’s sure to be a gentleman Upon whose high-bred face you scan A goodliness that seems to shine With every motive pure and fine. His clothes are always very smart And, my! He has a tender heart. A baby always makes him quit His burgling in the midst of it, And if a lady, young and slim, Should meet him in the hallway dim, He tells her all about his life— A bitter struggle, full of strife— And leaves the house, his bosom warm With brave endeavor to reform. Ah, yes, he is a pleasing crook, The burglar in the story book. Alas, for story-book repute, The real-life burglar is a brute. He is not cultured, swell or smart; He has a hard and ruthless heart. For sentiment he has no time. There is no glamour to his crime, And if he meets you in the hall He’ll doubtless murder you, that’s all. He’s pretty tough and bad and low, The burglar that policemen know.
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The Poor Tool
From The Tacoma Times, September 20, 1912. By Berton Braley. Of all of the nuisances known unto man Since old Doctor Noah saw land, The worst it has been my misfortune to scan Is always right near to my hand; And though I have tried it again and again, I never shall care for the postoffice pen. It’s sticky and clotted and gummy and old, It’s cluttered with shavings and hair; In damp, muggy weather it’s covered with mould, And though you may handle with care, You’ll find, when you’re through, that your fingers — all ten Are blackened with ink from the postoffice pen. It scratches and sputters and stutters in spots, It spatters your cuffs and your sleeve; It tears through the paper, it smudges and blots, And a trail of distress it will leave; For never in all of humanity’s ken Could anyone WRITE with a postoffice pen.