'A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss'

I never understood, I own, What anybody (with a soul) Could mean by offering a Stone This needless warning not to Roll; And what inducement there can be To gather Moss, I fail to see.

I'd sooner gather anything, Like primroses, or news perhaps, Or even wool (when suffering A momentary mental lapse); But could forgo my share of moss, Nor ever realise the loss.

'Tis a botanical disease, And worthy of remark as such; Lending a dignity to trees, To ruins a romantic touch; A timely adjunct, I've no doubt, But not worth writing home about.

Of all the Stones I ever met, In calm repose upon the ground, I really never found one yet With a desire to roll around; Theirs is a stationary role. (A joke,--and feeble on the whole.)

But, if I were a stone, I swear I'd sooner move and view the World, Than sit and grow the greenest hair That ever Nature combed and curled. I see no single saving grace In being known as 'Mossyface'!

Instead, I might prove useful for A weapon in the hand of Crime, A paperweight, a milestone, or A missile at Election-time; In each capacity I could Do quite incalculable good.

When well directed from the Pit, I might promote a welcome death, If fortunate enough to hit Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth, Who twice each day the playhouse fills,-- (For Further Notice see Small Bills).

At concerts, too, if you prefer, I could prevent your growing deaf By silencing the amateur Before she reached that upper F; Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick, Restrain some local Kubelik.

Then, human stones, take my advice, (As you should always do, indeed); This proverb may be very nice, But don't you pay it any heed, And, tho' you make the critics cross, Roll on, and never mind the moss!