He did not wear a uniform,
(We haven’t come to that)
But he wore a tired expression,
Crowned by last season’s hat;
And the general air of him bespoke
Existence dull and flat.
He walked among men of his kind
In a suit of shabby grey,
And with that hat upon his head,
One couldn’t call him gay;
For I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked
So sadly at the Hill,
Upon that little mount we call
The “Bread and Butter Mill”;
Where sham genteel and broken sport
Swallow the bitter pill.
Ink stains were on his fingers,
A desk hump on his back;
He seemed to be quite mastered,
And all ambition lack.
And one could see at once he was
A Departmental Hack.
I looked at him and wondered
“What mystery here lurks?
“Why does he look so tired,
“And move with nervous jerks?”
When a voice behind me murmured low,
“He’s in the Public Works.”
Great Cæsar’s Ghost and Holy Smoke,
What tricks had he done then,
To bring him unto such a pass,
And land him in that Pen;
Where Regulation and Routine
Suck the soul out of men.
What blow had blind fate struck him,
What had his fortune been?
To fashion him into a cog
Of the State’s grim machine
Which grinds and grinds exceeding small,
But not so very clean.
It’s fine to walk with Hope ahead,
It’s great to work for Love;
But Hell to turn a daily crank
For some one up above,
And know that every turn you make
Gives some one else a shove.
It’s good to be methodical,
And right to be exact;
But flat, stale and unprofitable,
To line up to an Act,
And forced at every turn and move
To register the fact.
And so I left the Shabby Clerk
His tiresome row to hoe,
To sign the book when, he went in,
And when he out would go;
Making himself a laughing stock
To some— who do not know.