I am sick of the lays of love, of the prating of beautiful eyes,
Of the ruby lips, of the golden hair, and of cheeks like morning skies;
For a day will dawn when the eyes grow dim, and the ringlets of gold are gray,
And love like a traitor, when wrinkles come, will silently sneak away.

I am weary of lays of friendship too, of the truth that never turns,
Of the trusting hearts and the helping hands, the faith that forever burns;
For when Fate may frown, and when Fortune flies, and your golden age is done,
You will find at last, wherever you go, there is left of your friends not one.

I am weary alike of Prayer, of beseeching of pitiless skies,
Of the wails for help, of the shrieks for aid as the wretch in anguish dies;
For the gods help those who uplift the sword, not those who as beggars come,
To the rich they give, from the poor they take, to the weak are deaf and dumb.

When ever you hang on another's arm, the soul of your strength is past;
When you give your fate to another's hands, the die of your doom is cast;
Whenever you mumble for mercy here, the day of defeat draws nigh;
Whenever you weep, whenever you wail, you are left to droop and die.

Whenever you win a battle of life, reap riches or gain renown,
No hand but your own on the flaming field will place on your head the crown.
If the palms you bear, if the bays you wear, if you heap and hoard your pelf.
No finger will lift from a friendly arm till first you have helped yourself.

I care not what men or women may say when of outside aid they tell,
For work others do can never suit you—you only can do it well.
And I know this truth, that if win I will, I must win by force of might;
What gift I may crave, what reward I seek, I lose if I do not fight.

Whatever a friend may do for a friend is only reflected light,
From the sun of Self, of splendor the source, and without which all is night.
Whenever the fang of a foeman stings, infection never takes place
Unless I myself have poisoned myself, nourishing grafted disgrace.

So I praise myself for fights I have fought, for the enemies underfoot hurled,
And I love myself and I hug myself as I face a hostile world;
And I praise myself that I heeded not the hisses and hoots and jeers,
And with bulldog grip have clung to my rights through all of the friendless years.

Though I blundered oft and I stumbled oft while bleeding from thrust on thrust,
I have faced all foes, have endured all blows, have risen when hurled to dust.
Though many my faults, and my passions strong, and sins of Self were to down,
I have forged ahead, and my brow deserves, though never it wear, a crown.

So I praise myself for the fights I fought against all the hosts of hell,
Though I knew at last was a greedy grave, and a shroud and a funeral bell.
I have trod the path which, I know not why, leads on to the lonely tomb,
And never a man or seraph of saint more boldly has marched to doom.

I care not what sage or sophist might do, what higher beings might say,
What counsel of man, what wisdom of God, may have shown a better way;
Had they fought like me, had they bled like me as they crept through earth to die,
I would challange them all to take up my lot and bear it better than I.

I have asked for aid from the sons of men—they have left me all alone;
I have prayed the gods for a loaf of bread—they have always given a stone.
So I clinched my teeth, and doubled my fists, and I fought to hold my own,
And the mobs of men, when I helped myself, have begged me accept a throne.

So little I care if they say my words are vanity, pomp of conceit,
For I know that Self and Self alone, can bring me a mess of meat.
So the little tin gods of the oldtime bards I shove in dust on the shelf,
And asking no leave of a living soul, I take off my hat to myself.