The mysterious Jamberoo tiger has been slain at last. It turned out to be a large cat.
There's a moral in this: tho' I own that the preaching Of moral and maxim in season and out Grows stale; yet these days of depressions far-reaching Demand any means to put worry to rout. So in that meangerie now populated By home-coming chickens and wolves upon mats Consider, when finally doubt's dissipated How often our tigers turn out to be cats. Three-fourths of our troubles some Frenchman has told us, But seldom occur. Tho' the ills of the mind Loom forth as fierce tigers while doubts yet unfold us, They turn into cats once we've put them behind. How often the dread of some darkened tomorrow Has ruined today; till, at Time's urgent call, Tomorrow's false fears become yester's small sorrow -- Innocuous cats, and not tigers at all. So, here is the moral -- just take it or leave it. It doesn't much matter, you'll scorn it, no doubt. Yet here is a truth and, if men don't receive it I've still done my duty in pointing it out. False troubles, false tigers engender false fearing; So use the grey matter close under your hat And, as you fare forth thro' life's dark forests peering, Go armed against tigers -- but still expect cats.
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2005|