Sun Day is a simple child,
Face new washed and shining;
In the morning prim and mild
Church and mid-day dining.
If, before the shadows fall,
You should find him going
Out to romp, or play at ball
Well, well. The child is growing.
Mon Day is a sulky boy.
He frowns on work and hates it.
Tho’ facing life should bring him joy,
He ill appreciates it.
But Tues Day is a bright young man,
Alert, well-dressed – oh, very
Snatching pleasure where he can,
Giving girls ‘the merry.’
Wednes Day, stout and middle-aged,
Seems hard-pressed and harried;
On grave affairs is he engaged;
And very much he’s married.
He holds severe and stubborn views
‘Young folk, sir? Trouble breeders!’
He scans the day’s financial news
And always reads the leaders.
Thurs Day, tho’ his hair be scant,
Is bouyant, bland and jolly;
Tho’ elderly, he’s tolerant
Of many a minor folly.
He owns a city business where
He sits ‘in consultation’;
But all his grey-haired pals declare
That golf’s his occupation.
Old Fri Day grins a toothless grin
A grandfer, stooped and shrunken.
His chest, his cheeks are caving in,
His dim old eyes deep sunken.
Yet, tho’ he sit and moan and mope,
All spent and worn with working,
Oft times a cunning gleam of hope
In his old eyes seems lurking.
In Satur Day one might expect
To find a wreck, fast dying.
Yet here’s a lusty stripling decked
For holiday, a-crying
To merry friends, in eager tones,
All bound for playing spaces;
Or else his favorite he ‘phones
And takes her to the races.
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