by Edgar Albert Guest
IT'S one o' my idees that men ain't all of fightin' stock,
They ain't all built fer ploughin' or fer hewin' out a rock;
An' they ain't all made fer battlin' up against life's steady stream,
There must be some of us on earth God put here jes' to dream;
Leastwise it strikes me that way - if it wasn't so, I guess,
Instead o' dreamin' here I 'd be out hustlin' fer success.
There's men that's fond o' money and there's men in love with fame,
An' there's others seekin' glory an' a great an' honored name;
There's men that's built fer fightin', men who love to plan an' scheme,
Men that's born with love o' conquest, an' there's men that love to dream;
Men who 'd rather spend a life time where the roses bloom and nod
Than win prizes on the highways where the fightin' brothers plod.
Folks may call me shiftless, maybe, an' may sneer when they go by
In their autos big an' splendid, while I'm gazin' at the sky,
An' perhaps they think I envy 'em the luxuries they know.
But I don't. My soul don't need 'em, an' I 'd gladly tell 'em so.
Fer I 'm happier with the roses, an' the hollyhocks an' trees
Than I would be makin' money - that is why I take my ease.
Last updated January 14, 2019