'Virtue Is Its Own Reward'

Virtue its own reward? Alas!And what a poor one, as a rule!Be Virtuous, and Life will passLike one long term of Sunday-school.(No prospect, truly, could one findMore unalluring to the mind.)

The Model Child has got to keepHis fingers and his garments white;In church he may not go to sleep,Nor ask to stop up late at night.In fact he must not ever doA single thing he wishes to.

He may not paddle in his boots,Like naughty children, at the sea;The sweetness of Forbidden FruitsIs not, alas! for such as he.He watches, with pathetic eyes,His weaker brethren make mud-pies.

He must not answer back, oh no!However rude grown-ups may be;But keep politely silent, tho'He brim with scathing repartee;For nothing is considered worseThan scoring off Mamma or Nurse.

He must not eat too much at meals,Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;However vacuous he feels,He may not pass his plate for more;--Not tho' his ev'ry organ acheFor further slabs of Christmas cake.

He is commanded not to wasteThe fleeting hours of childhood's days,By giving way to any tasteFor circuses or matinees;For him the entertainments plannedAre 'Lectures on the Holy Land.'

He never reads a story-bookBy Rider H. or Winston C.,In vain upon his desk you'd lookFor tales by Arthur Conan D.,Nor could you find upon his shelfThe works of Rudyard--or myself!

He always fears that he may doSome action that is infra dig.,And so he lives his short life throughIn the most noxious role of Prig.('Short Life' I say, for it's agreedThe Good die very young indeed.)

Ah me! how sad it is to thinkHe could have lived like me--or you!With practice, and a taste for drink,Our joys he might have known, he too!And shared the pleasure we have hadIn being gloriously bad!

The Naughty Boy gets much delightFrom doing what he should not do;But, as such conduct isn't Right,He sometimes suffers for it, too.Yet, what's a spanking to the funOf leaving vital things Undone?

The Wicked flourish like the bay,At Cards or Love they always win,Good Fortune dogs their steps all day,They fatten while the Good grow thin.The Righteous Man has much to bear;The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!

For, though he be the greatest sham,Luck favours him, his whole life through;At 'Bridge' he always makes a SlamAfter declaring 'Sans atout';With ev'ry deal his fate has plannedA hundred Aces in his hand.

Yes, it is always just the same;He somehow manages to win,By mere good fortune, any gameThat he may be competing in.At Golf no bunker breaks his club,For him the green provides no 'rub.'

At Billiards, too, he flukes away(With quite unnecessary 'side');No matter what he tries to play,For him the pockets open wide;He never finds both balls in baulk,Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk.

He swears; he very likely bets;He even wears a flaming necktie;Inhales Egyptian cigarettes,And has a 'Mens Inconscia Recti';Yet, spite of all, one must confessThat nought succeeds like his excess.

There's no occasion to be Just,No need for motives that are fine,To be Director of a Trust,Or Manager of a Combine;Your Corner is a public curse,Perhaps, but it will fill your purse.

Then stride across the Public's bones,Crush all opponents under you,Until you 'rise on stepping-stonesOf their dead selves'; and, when you do,The widow's and the orphan's tearsShall comfort your declining years!

Myself, how lucky I must be,That need not fear so gross an end;Since Fortune has not favoured meWith many million pounds to spend.(Still, did that fickle Dame relent,I'd show you how they should be spent!)

I am not saint enough to feelMy shoulder ripen to a wing,Nor have I wits enough to stealHis title from the Copper King;And there's a vasty gulf betweenThe man I Am and Might Have Been;

But tho' at dinner I may takeToo much of Heidsick (extra dry),And underneath the table makeMy simple couch just where I lie,My mode of roosting on the floorIs just a trick and nothing more.

And when, not Wisely but too Well,My thirst I have contrived to quench,The stories I am apt to tellMay be, perhaps, a trifle French;--(For 'tis in anecdote, no doubt,That what's Bred in the Beaune comes out.)--

It does not render me unfitTo give advice, both wise and right,Because I do not follow itMyself as closely as I might;There's nothing that I wouldn't doTo point the proper road to you.

And this I'm sure of, more or less,And trust that you will all agree--The Elements of HappinessConsist in being--just like Me;No sinner, nor a saint perhaps,But--well, the very best of chaps.

Share the Experience I have had,Consider all I've known and seen,And Don't be Good, and Don't be Bad,But cultivate a Golden Mean.

What makes Existence really niceIs Virtue--with a dash of Vice.