OTHERS may laugh at my feeble endeavor
To capture life’s prizes, and others may sneer;
The whole world may loudly declare I shall never
Be worthy the gunpowder to blow me from here.
It may be I ‘m punk as a parlor reciter,
And when I begin grown-ups take to the woods;
But that baby of mine! I can always delight her,
She vows I ‘m a wonder, she swears I ‘m the goods.
It may be I can’t keep a tune for a minute,
It may be my voice wanders far from the key;
It may be the nightingale, lark and the linnet
As songsters have quite a wide margin on me.
Caruso and others may take down the money
For singing their ditties to high-brows, but I
Have one little audience, cheerful and sunny,
Who ‘d rather hear me than the music you buy.
She thinks I ‘m a corker, a lalapaloosa,
She nightly applauds every stunt that I do;
She ‘d rather hear me than your John Philip Sousa,
To her the old nonsense forever is new.
That baby of mine thinks I ‘m great in whatever
I tackle, the moment we’ve finished our tea;
And though others may laugh at my feeble endeavor,
The praise of my little one satisfies me.
And so though the big world goes by me unheeding,
And never a grown-up takes notice of me;
Though into my work failure others are reading,
I ‘m still a success to the babe on my knee.
When worn out and weary, my long day is ended,
And homeward I turn, I forget my distress;
For I know that my baby still thinks I am splendid,
To her, anyhow, I ‘m a corking success!
