The Cry of the Elders
Reading edition
[With steady but increasing pace the world is approaching a point at which the cleverness of the young will amount to a social problem. Already things are getting uncomfortable for persons of age and sobriety, whose notion of happiness is to ruminate a few solid and simple ideas in freedom from disturbance.—Macmillan’s Magazine.]
O my Children, do you hear your elders sighing? Do you wonder that senility should find Your encyclopædic knowledge somewhat trying To the ordinary mind? In the heyday of a former generation, Some respect for our intelligence was shown; And it’s hard for us to cotton To the fact that you’ve forgotten More than we have ever known! O my Children, do you hear your elders snoring, When the “chassis” of your motors you discuss? Do you wonder that your “shop” is rather boring To such simple souls as us?[1] Do you marvel that your dreary conversation Should evoke the yawns that “lie too deep for tears,” When you lecture to your betters About “tanks” and “carburettors,” About “sparking-plugs” and “gears”? O my Children, in the season of your nonage, (Which delightful days no longer now exist!) We could join with other fogeys of our own age In a quiet game of whist. Now, at bridge, our very experts are defeated By some beardless but impertinent young cub, Who converts our silent table To a very Tow’r of Babel, At the Knickerbocker Club! O my Children, we no longer are respected! ’Tis a fact we older fellows must deplore, Whose opinions and whose judgments are neglected, As they never were before. We may tender good advice to our descendants; We may offer them our money, if we will; Lo, the one shall be forsaken, And the other shall be taken (Like the women at the mill!). O my Children, note the moral (like a kernel) I have hidden in the centre of my song! Do not contradict a relative maternal, If she happens to be wrong! Be indulgent to the author of your being; Never show him the contempt that you must feel; Treat him tolerantly, rather, Since a man who is your father Can’t be wholly imbecile! O my Children, we, the older generation, At whose feet you ought (in theory) to sit, Are bewildered by your mental penetration, We are dazzled by your wit! But we hopefully anticipate a future When the airship shall replace the motor-’bus, And your children, when they meet you, Shall inevitably treat you Just as you are treating us!