When the umpire calls you out,
It's no use to stamp and shout,
Wildly kicking dust about--
Play the game!
And though his decision may
End your chances for the day,
Rallies often end that way--
Play the game!
When the umpire shouts: "Strike two!"
And the ball seems wide to you,
There is just one thing to do:
Play the game!
Keep your temper at the plate,
Grit your teeth and calmly wait,
For the next one may be straight
Play the game!
When you think the umpire's wrong,
Tell him so, but jog along;
Nothing's gained by language strong--
Play the game!
For his will must be obeyed
Wheresoever baseball's played,
Take his verdict as it's made--
Play the game!
Son of mine, beyond a doubt,
Fate shall often call you "out,"
But keep on, with courage stout--
Play the game!
In the battlefield of men
There'll come trying moments when
You shall lose the verdict--then
Play the game!
There's an umpire who shall say
You have missed your greatest play,
And shall dash your hopes away--
Play the game!
You must bow unto his will
Though your chance it seems to kill,
And you think he erred, but still
Play the game!
For the Great Umpire above
Sees what we see nothing of,
By His wisdom and His love--
Play the game!
Keep your faith in Him although
His grim verdicts hurt you so,
At His Will we come and go--
Play the game!
WHEN THE
YOUNG ARE GROWN
Once the house was lovely, but it's lonely here to-day,
For time has come an' stained its walls an' called the young away;
An' all that's left for mother an' for me till life is through
Is to sit an' tell each other what the children used to do.
We couldn't keep 'em always an' we knew it from the start;
We knew when they were babies that some day we'd have to part.
But the years go by so swiftly, an' the littlest one has flown,
An' there's only me an' mother now left here to live alone.
Oh, there's just one consolation, as we're sittin' here at night,
They've grown to men an' women, an' we brought 'em up all right;
We've watched 'em as we've loved 'em an' they're splendid, every one,
An' we feel the Lord won't blame us for the way our work was done.
[Illustration: _"When The Young Are Grown"_
_From a painting by_ ROBERT E. JOHNSTON.]
They're clean, an' kind an' honest, an' the world respects 'em, too;
That's the dream of parents always, an' our dreams have all come true.
So although the house is lonely an' sometimes our eyes grow wet,
We are proud of them an' happy an' we've nothing to regret.