Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Game of Life

The Game of Life.

This life is but a game of cards, which mortals have to learn,Each shuffles, cuts, and deals the pack, and each a trump doth turn;Some bring a high card to the top and others bring a low,Some hold a hand quite flush of trumps, while others none can show.

Some shuffle with a practised hand, and pack their cards with care,That they may know, when they are dealt, where all the leaders are;Thus fools are made the dupes of rogues, while rogues each other cheat,And he is very wise indeed who never meets defeat.

When playing, some do throw the ace the counting cards to save,Some play the deuce, and some the ten, but many play the knave;Some play for money, some for fun, and some for worldly fame,But not until the game's played out can they count out their game.

When hearts are trumps we play for love, and pleasure rules the hour,No thoughts of sorrow check our joy in beauty's rosy bower;We sing, we dance, sweet verses make, our cards at random play,And, while our trump remains on top, our game's a holiday.

When diamonds chance to crown the pack the players stake their gold,And heavy sums are lost and won by gamblers young and old;Intent on winning, each his game doth watch with eager eye,How he may see his neighbour's cards and beat him on the sly.

When clubs are trumps look out for war on ocean and on land,For bloody horrors always come when clubs are held in hand;Then lives are staked instead of gold, the dogs of war are freed—In our dear country now we see that clubs have got the lead.

Last game of all is when the spade is turned by hand of Time,He always deals the closing game in every age and clime;No matter how much each man wins or how much each man saves,The spades will finish up the game and dig the players' graves.