Tag: Duncan M. Smith

From the Rock Island Argus, November 26, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 What a crisscross maze is life
     Take it any way you choose
 In the never ending strife
     As you gain and as you lose!
 Luck is with you now and then
     As you hurry for your goal
 Twisting through the maze again
     You are pitched into a hole.
 
 Out of it you scramble up,
     Hoping to do mighty deeds
 Still of sorrow you must sup
     Ere your budding hope succeeds.
 How you struggle, how you groan,
     As you buckle to your task
 Just to make success your own,
     Just in fortune’s smile to bask!
 
 But it isn’t all a frost.
     There are seasons to be gay.
 Hope is never wholly lost
     Joys are blooming on your way.
 There’s a path to your success
     You will find it after while
 If you seek with cheerfulness
     And you don’t forget to smile.

From the Rock Island Argus, November 25, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 If you cannot win a fortune
     That will feather well your nest
 You at least can earn a living
     If you work your level best.
 If you cannot make a million
     Where the highest stakes are played
 You can knock out several dollars
     Working daily at your trade.
 
 What’s the use of having money
     That you never hope to spend?
 It will only bring you trouble
     It is not your truest friend.
 If you settle with the grocer
     And can pay the butcher’s score
 With a little left for pleasure
     What can any one do more?
 
 For the man who has a million
     Only has one pair of eyes
 To behold the wondrous picture
     As old earth before him lies.
 He can only eat one breakfast
     Only occupy one bed
 Only wear one pair of slippers
     Have but one hat upon his head.
 
 If you cannot own an auto
     That will travel double quick
 You can stroll along the highway
     Where the autumn leaves are thick
 And whatever your situation
     In whatever niche you fit
 You can have a lot of pleasure
     If you make the best of it.

From the Rock Island Argus, November 23, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 Oh, gladness is a splendid thing
     For bards to write about
 When they are very sorely pressed
     And subjects have run out!
 Their souls may not be soaked in joy
     To match the gentle strain
 And they may have a grouch so large
     That it would block a train.
 
 But still they write of cheerfulness
     As though it were a part
 Of their existence and it gushed
     In torrents from their heart.
 They put aside their aching tooth,
     The bill they cannot pay,
 The rent that’s always overdue,
     And then they work away.
 
 Great gobs of gladness is their theme,
     The first that comes to hand.
 They tell the people they should use
     This one and only brand.
 But do they use a bit themselves—
     I mean outside their rime—
 With which to make a brighter world?
     I fear they haven’t time.
 
 O gladsome gladness, you’re the goods
     For use in daily life
 Far better than the grim old grouch
     Which leads to care and strife!
 And if the poet does not feel
     The impulse of his song
 You’ll find that the advice is good
     Enough to take along.

From the Rock Island Argus, November 21, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 I have cousins in Missouri
     I have uncles in New York
 I have sisters in Chicago
     And an aunt who lives in Cork
 Second cousins in Australia
     And in any other place
 That offhand you might mention.
     My, but we’re a scattered race!
 
 When my father was a youngster
     In a little Scottish town
 He was blessed with several brothers—
     Eight it was; I marked it down—
 And about as many sisters—
     Ten I think I heard him say—
 And when they had grown and married
     Each one went a different way.
 
 And they had—how many children?
     Goodness knows, for I do not
 As I never took a census
     But it must have been a lot.
 And the children, grown to manhood
     As myself, for time has flown
 And we all are growing ancient,
     Must have children of their own.
 
 So the stock is widely scattered
     From the palm tree to the pine
 Nearly every state and country
     Has some relative of mine.
 And with almost every family
     It’s the same old tale again,
 For the world is getting ready
     For a common race of men.

From the Rock Island Argus, November 14, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 I always want to read a book
     When I have work on hand.
 A most alluring volume then
     Is lying on the stand.
 If I have nothing on my mind
     And work is rather slack
 The selfsame book a week can lie
     Unopened on the rack.
 
 How tempting when I ought to be
     So busy making hay
 Is any book that happens to
     By lying in my way!
 I want to cast my pen aside
     And take a furtive look
 For just about a half an hour
     In that alluring book.
 
 It doesn’t matter to me what
     The volume is about.
 It may be poetry or prose,
     A treatise on the gout,
 A little book on fancy work,
     On how to till the land,
 Just so it serves to turn me from
     The work I have in hand.
 
 But that is not the worst of it—
     Oh, no, that isn’t all!—
 For when temptation thus appears
     The truth is that I fall.
 Nor do I read for half an hour
     And then the covers bang—
 I keep it up for half a day
     And let the work go hang!

From the Rock Island Argus, November 11, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 Some are going farther south
     For a climate new;
 Some seek cooler northern lands
     To their strength renew;
 Some are hiking for the west
     After health and fame;
 Western men are going east
     With the selfsame aim.
 
 Some from Mexico are bound
     For Alaska’s shore;
 From the north some journey down
     Where the gulf waves roar;
 On the warm Pacific slope
     Some are there from Maine;
 Others from the far, far west
     Take the eastern train.
 
 In the town where they were born
     Very few remain.
 Others come and take their place
     In the hope of gain.
 And their paths are often crossed,
     Touching here and there,
 As they zigzag back and forth
     Going everywhere.
 
 What a restless age it is
     For the man perplexed.
 Stopping first in this man’s town,
     Striking for the next!
 Don’t you wish that you could have
     Planted safe and sound
 Half the money that it costs
     For this running round?

From the Rock Island Argus, November 2, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 Lift up your eyes and look about
     And get your money’s worth,
 For lying fair before you see
     A great old little earth.
 The view is very wide and bright
     And pulsing everywhere,
 And not a picture in the world
     Can with the sight compare.
 
 Lift up your eyes. Don’t focus them
     Upon the lowly ditch
 The while you brood upon your woes
     And wish that you were rich.
 Before you lies a waiting world,
     All joyous, bright and fair,
 And, with the others of your kind,
     In it you own a share.
 
 Lift up your eyes and take a look,
     For everything is free,
 And no admission need be paid
     And no outgoing fee.
 The brook, the meadow and the lake,
     The clouds that grace the air,
 The mountains and the restless sea
     Are there for you to share.
 
 Lift up your eyes unto the hills
     And let your soul expand
 As in the broader, wider view
     A man newborn you stand.
 Take heed of nature’s wondrous works,
     Whose beauties you now miss,
 And, though you may be poor in purse,
     You shall be rich in this.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 26, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 Art may paint a picture,
   Art may carve a stone,
 Art may write a poem
   That is long on tone.
 Art may put on canvas
   Earth and sky and sea;
 Art that cooks a chicken
   Is the art for me.
 
 In the world artistic,
   Where the artists fare,
 There are many castles,
   Mostly in the air.
 But for building houses
   You would rather pick
 On the one artistic
   Who can lay a brick.
 
 Art that’s for the artists
   Who are sad of eye
 And have flowing neckties
   Is in big supply.
 But of art more homely
   That can mend a chair
 For its fat old uncle
   There is none to spare.
 
 Schools of art are turning
   Out the graduates
 In alarming number,
   Light and heavy weights.
 But for daily plugging
   We would rather meet
 With a line of artists
   Who can mend a street.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 17, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 My pa he handles popcorn balls,
   And he sells peanuts, too,
 And lots of other things like that
   That make you want to chew.
 And sometimes I can go along
   And help him wait on trade,
 Especially if it’s a time
   He’s selling lemonade.
 
 My pa he fills his basket up,
   And he goes everywhere.
 When other people have to pay
   He walks right in the fair.
 Sometimes he lets me go along
   The gatemen they just grin
 And say when pa says, “That’s my kid,”
   “Just take him right on in.”
 
 My pa he has a lot of friends
   For everywhere he goes
 It seems that every one he meets
   Is some one that he knows.
 They chat with him a little while
   And then most always say,
 “I guess I’ll take some peanuts or
   A ball of corn today.”
 
 I’m awful sorry for the kids
   Whose fathers work in banks
 Or blacksmith shops or offices
   Or where they fill the tanks.
 They never get to go along,
   They must feel mighty bad.
 But I can go most anywhere,
   Because I help my dad.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 12, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 His ancestor a pirate was,
   And proudly he gave tongue
 Unto the fact that his forbear
   Had from a yardarm swung.
 For if you take it in the days
   When history was made
 A pirate was, you are aware,
   A very decent trade.
 
 He had his picture on the wall
   Where every one could look;
 His history was written up
   And printed in a book.
 And he was just a trifle proud
   And thought that he was great
 Because he had descended from
   That tough old ancient skate.
 
 He had a sort of pity for
   The person who came down
 From ancestors who never robbed
   A coast or burned a town.
 They might be all right in a way,
   But it was understood
 They couldn’t be so much, because
   Their ancestors were good.
 
 He wouldn’t hurt a worm himself;
   He wouldn’t kill a fly.
 He was a modest man without
   A wicked, piercing eye.
 I often wondered, could we turn
   Back to the ancient crowd,
 If that old fiery ancestor
   Of him would have been proud.