"Progress?" he shouted. "Bah! A fig!
Where are the things that count or last
In building something very big
Or goin' somewhere very fast?
We put the horse behind the cart;
For where's your progress of the heart?
"Great wisdom lived long years ago,
An' yet we say that we progress.
The paint an' tinsel of our show
Are more than at the old address.
Are men more generous, or kind?
Then where's your progress of the mind?"
(I think Bob Blair's a trifle mad;
They say so, too, around these parts;
An' he can be, when he's reel bad,
A holy terror once he starts.
Dare say it's readin' books an' such.
Thank God I never read too much!)
I says I'm sure that I don't know
Where all this progress gets to now.
He smiles a bit an' answers low,
"Maybe you'll find out, lad, somehow.
But talkin' makes my old head whirl;
So you be off, an'—find that girl."
