NEARLY A PESSIMIST.

What’s the use o’ laughter, What’s the use o’ strife, To a gloomy shafter In this team of Life? Hear the whips a-crackin’ Through the atmosphere, When the traces slacken— Let us have a beer. What’s the use o’ flayin’ Loathsome gads and drills? What’s the use o’ payin’ Other people’s bills? Let the missus hustle, Let the kinchins clear; I’m not goin’ to bustle— Let us have a beer. What’s the use o’ prayin’? ’Taint no use to curse; What’s the use o’ layin’ ’Gainst the winning hearse? Man at best’s a rotter, Fried and frizzled here; Hell can’t be no hotter— Let us have a beer. What’s the use o’ sittin’ Dry as blessed chips? What’s the use o’ spittin’ Through our corn-beef lips? What’s the use o’ drinkin’? Well, that ain’t so clear To my way of thinkin’— Let us have a beer. What’s the use o’ frettin’ Cos you missed the pot? What’s the use o’ gettin’ In a tied-up knot Bet you can’t unravel If you tried a year? No, that cop don’t travel— Let us have a beer. What’s the——? Oh, I’m toilin’ Down the Boulder way— Only just been spoilin’ Arf a quid a day. Now you bet I’m chargin’ Homewards at my top. · · · · What’s the use o’ bargin’ With a white-eyed slop?

What though the day Be dull and grey, The earth bestrewn with ashes— Hope’s magic lamp Lights up his camp With rainbow-tinted flashes! His eyes, with some unwonted beam, Grow soft as any feather, Since Luck slid through The kipsy flue, To smile on “Hell for Leather”! The jade and he, Since ’Ninety-three, Had not so much as spoken: The goods she sold Were gilt—not gold— And promises were broken; But “Hell for Leather” scratched along As desperation scratches, A harlequin, Beclobbered in A rig of shreds and patches! When Hunger grim Shaped up to him, He’d scorn to take it sitting; But answered back, With crack for crack, Nor ever thought of quitting; And oft he’d say, though buckled belt And backbone came together, “Some day, I’ll bet, Will Fortune yet Chum in with ‘Hell for Leather’!” His frame was lean: His eyes shone keen Beneath their shaggy awning: Somewhere ahead, He always said, A brighter day was dawning! And oft, around the hatter’s camp, Would fact with fancy scamper, What time he’d munch His frugal lunch Of potted dog and damper. But years, at last, Must win the cast, And locks grow white and whiter; For Time is tough To belt and cuff, Though sturdy be the fighter: Yet so it happed, ere Winter fell, Like frost on Highland heather, Good luck slid through His chimney flue, To smile on “Hell for Leather”! And so the tale With cakes and ale Is garnished, ere ’tis ended; And so the stress And bitterness With soothing oil are blended; And far away, by out-back pads, Where battlers stretch the tether, And starve or roast, They’ll drink the toast Of “Good old ‘Hell for Leather’!”