And though you may laugh on the mountain’s crown,
And though I may toil at the base,
It is neither he who is up nor down
Has himself to thank for his place;
But whether ’tis Fate, if you choose to say,
Or say, if you choose, ’tis chance—
No matter—the tune that their fingers play
Is exactly the step we dance.
Yet if all the tales that are told be wrong,
And though reason be topmost yet,
There’s a broken chord in the tempting song
And a “something” of cheap regret;
But a fig for the tones of the broken chord!
And a fig for the tempting voice!
For a man must fight with a wooden sword
Where he only has Hobson’s choice.
And so, with his hand to the pewter pot,
And a smile on his frothy lip,
He follows the way of the drunken sot
Like a dog to his master’s whip;
And at last, with a curse on the hopeless strife,
He will knock at the Border Gate
As he slings his hat in the face of Life,
And his boots in the teeth of Fate.