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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408639" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Here's Luck</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old Time is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,<br>A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all;<br>Some dust’ll fly from beery coats—at least it’s been declared.<br>I’m glad that wimin has the votes—but just a trifle scared. <br>I’m just a trifle scared—For why? The wimin mean to rule;<br>It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.<br>The days of men is nearly dead—of double moons and stars—<br>They’ll soon put out our pipes, ’tis said, an’ close the public bars. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No more we’ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an’ strife,<br>An’chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.<br>We’ll laugh an’joke an’ sing no more with jolly beery chums,<br>An’ shout ‘Here’s luck!’ while waitin’ for the luck that never comes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Did we prohibit swillin’ tea clean out of common-sense<br>Or legislate on gossipin’ across a backyard fence?<br>Did we prohibit bustles—or the hoops when they was here?<br>The wimin never think of this—they want to stop our beer. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut,<br>But, oh! we’ll find it long an’ rough when all the pubs is shut,<br>When all the pubs is shut, an’ gone the doors we used to seek,<br>An’ we go toilin’, thirstin’ on through Sundays all the week. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For since the days when pubs was ‘inns’—in years gone past’n’ far—<br>Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an’ sorrers at the bar;<br>An’ though at times it led to crimes, an’ debt, and such complaints—<br>I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">’Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an’ break his coffin lid;<br>And Burns’s ghost would wail an’ weep as Bobby never did.<br>But let the preachers preach in style, an’ rave and rant—’n’ buck,<br>I rather guess they’ll hear awhile the old war-cry: ‘Here’s Luck!’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The world might wobble round the sun, an’ all the banks go bung,<br>But pipes’ll smoke an’ liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung.<br>While men are driven through the mill, an’ flinty times is struck,<br>They’ll find a private entrance still! Here’s Luck, old man—Here’s Luck!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408639" data-title="Here's Luck de Henry Lawson" data-description="Old Time is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,
A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all;
Some dust’ll fly from beery coats—at least it’s been declared.
I’m glad that wimin has the votes—but just a trifle s..."></div>
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