The Ballad Of The Elder Son

A son of elder sons I am,     Whose boyhood days were cramped and scant,     Through ages of domestic sham     And family lies and family cant.     Come, elder brothers mine, and bring     Dull loads of care that you have won,     And gather round me while I sing     The ballad of the elder son.     Twas Christ who spake in parables,     To picture man was his intent;     A simple tale He simply tells,     And He Himself makes no comment.     A morbid sympathy is felt     For prodigals, the selfish ones,     The crooked world has ever dealt     Unjustly by the elder sons.     The elder son on barren soil,     Where life is crude and lands are new,     Must share the fathers hardest toil,     And share the fathers troubles too.     With no child-thoughts to meet his own     His childhood is a lonely one:     The youth his father might have known     Is seldom for the eldest son.     It seems so strange, but fate is grim,     And Heavens ways are hard to track,     Though ten young scamps come after him     The rod falls heaviest on his back.     And, well Ill say it might be caused     By a half-sense of injustice done,     That vague resentment parents feel     So oft towards the eldest son.     He, too, must bear the fathers name,     He loves his younger brother, too,     And feels the younger brothers shame     As keenly as his parents do.     The mothers prayers, the fathers curse,     The sisters tears have all been done,     We seldom see in prose or verse     The prayers of the elder son.     But let me to the parable     With eyes on facts but fancy free;     And dont belie me if I tell     The story as it seems to me,     For, mind, I do not mean to sneer     (I was religious when a child),     I wouldnt be surprised to hear     That Christ himself had sometimes smiled.     A certain squatter had two sons     Up Canaan way some years ago.     The graft was hard on those old runs,     And it was hot and life was slow.     The younger brother coolly claimed     The portion that he hadnt earned,     And sought the life for which untamed     And high young spirits always yearned.     A year or so he knocked about,     And spent his cheques on girls and wine,     And, getting stony in the drought,     He took a job at herding swine,     And though he is a hog that swigs     And fools with girls till all is blue,     Twas rather rough to shepherd pigs     And have to eat their tucker too.     When he came to himself, he said     (I take my Bible from the shelf:     Theres nothing like a feed of husks     To bring a young man to himself.     And when youre done with wine and girls,     Right here a moral seems to shine,     And are hard up, youll find no pearls     Are cast by friends before your swine),     When he came to himself, he said,     He reckoned pretty shrewdly, too,     The rousers in my fathers shed     Have got more grub than they can chew;     Ive been a fool, but such is fate,     I guess Ill talk the guvnor round:     Ive acted cronk, Ill tell him straight;     (Hes had his time too, Ill be bound).     Ill tell him straight Ive had my fling,     Ill tell him Ive been on the beer,     But put me on at anything,     Ill graft with any bounder here.     He rolled his swag and struck for home,     He was by this time pretty slim     And, when the old man saw him come,     Well, you know how he welcomed him.     Theyve brought the best robe in the house,     The ring, and killed the fatted calf,     And now they hold a grand carouse,     And eat and drink and dance and laugh:     And from the field the elder son,     Whose character is not admired,     Comes plodding home when work is done,     And very hot and very tired.     He asked the meaning of the sound     Of such unwonted revelry,     They said his brother had been found     (Hed found himself it seemed to me);     Twas natural in the elder son     To take the thing a little hard     And brood on what was past and done     While standing outside in the yard.     Now he was hungry and knocked out     And would, if they had let him be,     Have rested and cooled down, no doubt,     And hugged his brother after tea,     And welcomed him and hugged his dad     And filled the wine cup to the brim,     But, just when he was feeling bad     The old man came and tackled him.     He well might say with bitter tears     While music swelled and flowed the wine,     Lo, I have served thee many years     Nor caused thee one grey hair of thine.     Whateer thou badst me do I did     And for my brother made amends;     Thou never gavest me a kid     That I might make merry with my friends.     (He was no honest clod and glum     Who could not trespass, sing nor dance,     He could be merry with a chum,     It seemed, if he had half a chance;     Perhaps, if further light we seek,     He knew, and herein lay the sting,     His brother would clear out next week     And promptly pop the robe and ring).     The father said, The wandering one,     The lost is found, this son of mine,     But thou art always with me, son,     Thou knowest all I have is thine.     (It seemed the best robe and the ring,     The love and fatted calf were not;     But this was just a little thing     The old man in his joy forgot.)     The fathers blindness in the house,     The mothers fond and foolish way     Have caused no end of ancient rows     Right back to Cain and Abels day.     The world will blame the eldest born,     But, well, when all is said and done,     No coat has ever yet been worn     That had no colour more than one.     Oh! if I had the power to teach,     The strength for which my spirit craves,     The cant of parents I would preach     Who slave and make their children slaves.     For greed of gain, and that alone     Their youth they steal, their hearts they break     And then, the wretched misers moan,     We did it for our childrens sake.     And all I have, the paltry bribe     That he might slave contented yet     While envied by his selfish tribe     The birthright he might never get:     The worked-out farm and endless graft,     The mortgaged home, the barren run,     The heavy, hopeless overdraft,     The portion of the elder son.     He keeps his parents when theyre old,     He keeps a sister in distress,     His wife must work and care for them     And bear with all their pettishness.     The mothers moan is ever heard,     And, whining for the worthless one,     She seldom has a kindly word     To say about her eldest son.     Tis he, in spite of sneer and jibe,     Who stands the friend when others fail:     He bears the burdens of his tribe     And keeps his brother out of jail.     He lends the quid and pays the fine,     And for the family pride he smarts,     For reasons I cannot divine     They hate him in their heart of hearts.     A satire on this world of sin,     Where parents seldom understand,     That night the angels gathered in     The firstborn of that ancient land.     Perhaps they thought, in those old camps,     While suffering for the blow that fell,     They might have better spared the scamps     And Josephs that they loved so well.     Sometimes the Eldest takes the track     When things at home have got too bad,     He comes not crawling, canting back     To seek the blind side of his dad.     He always finds a knife and fork     And meat between on which to dine,     And, though he sometimes deals in pork,     Youll never catch him herding swine.     The happy home, the overdraft,     His birthright and his prospects gay,     And likewise his share of the graft,     He leaves the rest to grab. And they,     Whod always do the thing by halves,     If anything for him was done,     Would kill a score of fatted calves     To welcome home the eldest son.