BASED like a rock, he so abides:
He stands alone in his own stead.
“What I have said,” he says, “I have said.”
The blows of Fate
May break his pate;
They will not shake Old Sober-sides.
He weighs, considers, and decides;
No flunkey of the powers that be.
His patient, stubborn, “Wait and see,”
Leaves ample room
For what may come
From whencesoever, to Sober-sides.
Byes he may bowl; not No’s or Wides;
Pitch, length, pace, he’ll keep all day.
That square packed head, broad nose, the way
He stands, fixed eyes,
Shoulders and thighs,
“Get the man out!” says Sober-sides.
What stirs him to the bone he hides;
He has no use for sentiment.
He goes the way he always went.
Others may range
And veer and change
East, West–not so, Old Sober-sides.
No point too nice his mind divides;
He tracks a problem to its root;
His Nay is Nay, and absolute.
Shades, tints and hues,
Fancies and views?”
I am convinced,” says Sober-sides.
Nothing cares he what else betides.
Words are mere words, but facts are facts.
No fumbling doubts for him: he acts.
Staunch, wideawake,
The rack, the stake
He’d face unmoved, Old Sober-sides.
Simple as solid, he confides
The all he has in what he loves,
And that upon his pulses proves.
Nature and Art
May play their part;
His soul’s his own, Old Sober-sides.
Blockheads like this the World derides.
Fools scoff. Vice spits, and turns away.
The clever look for easier prey;
Or eye askance
Such ignorance
And he stares back, Old Sober-sides.
Age creeps, sands sink, Time onward glides.
Unfaltering friend, unflinching foe,
The hour will strike when he must go.
But if the grave
A secret have,
He fears it not, Old Sober-sides.
Dogging life’s high road, he bestrides
Horse Sense. Alas, the loveliness
Wasting beyond the wayside trees;
The dells, the dales,
The nightingales,
The sweetness and grace, Old Sober-sides!
Man’s heart—that sea-has its own tides
Which flow and ebb. And many move
Obedient to a moon called love.
But full, sure, slow,
Great rivers flow;
And, at their source, sits Sober-sides.
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