So, I'm rummaging for clothing in the back of the car, and come upon an old book of poems. I pick it up and open it, and it falls open to this page, this poem.
*shakes fist at heavens*
CARRY ON!
Robert Service
Its easy to fight when everythings right,
And youre mad with thrill and the glory;
Its easy to cheer when victorys near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.
Its a different song when everythings wrong,
When youre feeling infernally mortal;
When its ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:
Carry on! Carry on!
There isnt much punch in your blow.
You are glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You are muddy and bloody, but never you mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You havent the ghost of a show.
Its looking like death, but while youve a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!
And so in the strife of the battle of life
Its easy to fight when youre winning;
Its easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, theres the man of Gods choosing;
The man who can fight to Heavens own height
Is the man who can fight when hes losing.
Carry on! Carry on!
Thing never were looming so black.
But show that you havent a cowardly streak,
And though youre unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
Its looking like hell, but you never tell.
Carry on, old man! Carry on!
There are some who drift out in the desert of doubt
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labor with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, theres the real sunshine of living.
Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
Theres big work to do, and thats why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry!
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!
I watched last night Troy and Master and Commander. I watched as a boy barely ten lost his arm with nary a whine and took temporary command of a ship. As a weoman lost her husband but still went on to lead survivors away from a sacked city. As another knew the destruction of a once proud and beautiful land fell on her head and had to comfort the family who lost everything protecting her. And as that family protected her still. I watched cleverness and bravery and honor and glory, and I would think it Hollywood cinimatic bullshit if I hadnt read the old tales myself, the historical documents that once were just journals, penned by the hand of a man or woman who thought their words only meant for them.
This was true, once. People stood for something. Where our children whimper at the slightest cut, theirs endured hardships that would and has broken full adults in this century. People literally bit off their tongues rather than speak, there is record after record of it in ancient times. And through the pain stood defiant. Women lived on, even after their babies were thrown from city walls, their husbands slaughtered, and they were taken as slaves. People died for honor, pride meant something, to die with dignity, unafriad, was an act worthy of the gods. Burial rituals meant something, there was power even in mourning and death. Enemies could respect each other and still kill each other.
I wonder now, as we fight in this meaningless world of digitized ones and zeros, go to work and do nothing but scribble on paper all day, go home and listen as we are urged to be cowards and fools, as the strong are brought down by the weak instead of the weak raised up by the stroing, I wonder if we lose direction, purpose, hope because it feels it isnt worth it. I mean, if you stand proud and do whats right you are liable to be sued as respected. Loyalty means nothing anymore, not in a society where even friends and family are a throwaway commodity. Why fight when your struggles win no respect? Why die when your death is a meaningless statistic? Why try when your efforts are words written on the sand at seashore, destined to be erased by the very next wave?
I guess I need to think more.
I wish I could find an answer.
*sigh* I need someone I can philosophize with.
THE SCEPTIC
Robert Service
My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.
Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse--
My God or Santa Claus.
*shakes fist at heavens*
CARRY ON!
Robert Service
Its easy to fight when everythings right,
And youre mad with thrill and the glory;
Its easy to cheer when victorys near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.
Its a different song when everythings wrong,
When youre feeling infernally mortal;
When its ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:
Carry on! Carry on!
There isnt much punch in your blow.
You are glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You are muddy and bloody, but never you mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You havent the ghost of a show.
Its looking like death, but while youve a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!
And so in the strife of the battle of life
Its easy to fight when youre winning;
Its easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, theres the man of Gods choosing;
The man who can fight to Heavens own height
Is the man who can fight when hes losing.
Carry on! Carry on!
Thing never were looming so black.
But show that you havent a cowardly streak,
And though youre unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
Its looking like hell, but you never tell.
Carry on, old man! Carry on!
There are some who drift out in the desert of doubt
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labor with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, theres the real sunshine of living.
Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
Theres big work to do, and thats why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry!
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!
I watched last night Troy and Master and Commander. I watched as a boy barely ten lost his arm with nary a whine and took temporary command of a ship. As a weoman lost her husband but still went on to lead survivors away from a sacked city. As another knew the destruction of a once proud and beautiful land fell on her head and had to comfort the family who lost everything protecting her. And as that family protected her still. I watched cleverness and bravery and honor and glory, and I would think it Hollywood cinimatic bullshit if I hadnt read the old tales myself, the historical documents that once were just journals, penned by the hand of a man or woman who thought their words only meant for them.
This was true, once. People stood for something. Where our children whimper at the slightest cut, theirs endured hardships that would and has broken full adults in this century. People literally bit off their tongues rather than speak, there is record after record of it in ancient times. And through the pain stood defiant. Women lived on, even after their babies were thrown from city walls, their husbands slaughtered, and they were taken as slaves. People died for honor, pride meant something, to die with dignity, unafriad, was an act worthy of the gods. Burial rituals meant something, there was power even in mourning and death. Enemies could respect each other and still kill each other.
I wonder now, as we fight in this meaningless world of digitized ones and zeros, go to work and do nothing but scribble on paper all day, go home and listen as we are urged to be cowards and fools, as the strong are brought down by the weak instead of the weak raised up by the stroing, I wonder if we lose direction, purpose, hope because it feels it isnt worth it. I mean, if you stand proud and do whats right you are liable to be sued as respected. Loyalty means nothing anymore, not in a society where even friends and family are a throwaway commodity. Why fight when your struggles win no respect? Why die when your death is a meaningless statistic? Why try when your efforts are words written on the sand at seashore, destined to be erased by the very next wave?
I guess I need to think more.
I wish I could find an answer.
*sigh* I need someone I can philosophize with.
THE SCEPTIC
Robert Service
My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.
Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse--
My God or Santa Claus.
