Don't, My Boy, Feel Blue

By William Henry Dawson

Sometimes one feels as if he’d lost
His last and dearest friend;
And that a bare existence costs
More than one has to spend.
Should such a feeling ever take
Possession, boy, of you,
Strain every nerve its chain to break,
And don’t, my boy, feel blue.
No matter if the cold should drop
Below the thirty line;
Don’t fume, and fret, and scold, but stop
And smile, and say “it’s fine.”
Behind each cloud, however dense,
There is a silver hue;
Then exercise your common sense,
And don’t, my boy, feel blue.
Or if beneath the scorching rays
Of summer’s sun you’re called
To walk, rough shod, plain duty’s ways,
Until footsore and galled,
Go right along with patient tread,
And whate’er else you do,
Keep a right heart and level head,
And don’t, my boy, feel blue.
For every man who does his best,
According to the light
That God has placed within his breast,
Is right—most surely right.
And when that little silent guide
Tells you that what you do
Is right, you may in him confide,
And don’t, my boy, feel blue.
The great highway that skyward leads,
Goes not through vice and crime;
Its steps are just the little deeds
Performed, each hour of time.
Be sure, then, that each act is right,
And each heartbeat is true;
Then you will find each day so bright
‘Twill dissipate the blue.