LET tribulation’s waters roll, and drench me as I don’t deserve! I am
the captain of my soul, I am the colonel of my nerve. Don’t say my
boasting’s out of place, don’t greet me with a jeer or scoff; I’ve met
misfortune face to face, and pulled its blooming whiskers off. For I
have sounded all the deeps of poverty and ill and woe, and that old
smile I wear for keeps still pushed my features to and fro. Oh, I have
walked the wintry streets all night because I had no bed; and I have
hungered for the eats, and no one handed me the bread. And I have herded
with the swine like that old prodigal of yore, and this elastic smile of
mine upon my countenance I wore. For I believed and still believe that
nothing ill is here to stay; the woozy woe, that makes us grieve,
tomorrow will be blown away. My old-time griefs went up in smoke, and I
remain a giggling bard; I look on trouble as a joke, and chortle when it
hits me hard. It’s all your attitude of mind that makes you gay or sad,
my boy, that makes your work a beastly grind, or makes it seem a round
of joy. The mind within me governs all, and brings me gladness or
disgust; I am the captain of my gall, I am the major of my crust.
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