To-morrow will be Try-day.

Before we grew to meanhood, and when mortgages, marriages and time payment (or time and tied) meant no more to us than the lines on father's face, the morrow was the marrow of to-day; to-day was merely the morrow in pyjamas and to-morrow was only to-day once removed by mirage. So if we can't be sensible let's be young, for,

If to-day brings sorrow
There is still to-morrow
Waiting one door on,
When to-day is gone.
Each to-day is to-morrow,
If you care to borrow
From old Tick Time
With his chiding chime.
If to-day is shady
You may raise your “cady”
To to-morrow's morn—
Or to-day's first-born.
For to-morrow's to-day—
Or it was, anyway—
And to-day is to-morrow,
That's to say, if you borrow.
Each day is a day
And you take or you pay
As you go, on the morrow,
Of “siller” or sorrow.
But taking it all
On the rise and the fall,
The soul cannot sorrow
That bets on the morrow.
To-day may be sticky,
Uncertain or tricky,
But, come-day or borrow,
There's always to-morrow.