What's The Use?

A poem by Edward Smyth Jones

Oh! What is living but moving about,
Buoyed up with hope and crushed down by doubt?
What is the draught of breath we harp on as life?
Naught but a sip of peace, a cup full of strife -
What's the use?

What is the place we call our home, "sweet home"?
Naught but a span of space where one may roam:
Night's pitchy corner; a hard crust of bread;
Cot for your feeble limbs, pillow your head -
What's the use?

Now, what is loving but acting a fool?
And what is quitting? - Producing a rule:
Break short the flight of Dan Cupid's swift dart,
Aimed at the core of an innocent heart!
What's the use?

Say, what is marrying but getting in trouble?
Trifling 'way joy while your sorrow is double?
What, then, is your state my friend, after you've wed?
Naught but a vial of wrath poured upon your head!
What's the use?

Ah! what is batching but living a man;
Sporting and sleeping - just running his plan?
Come when he's ready, and go when he please -
Brain's full of joy, his heart is at ease -
See, that's the use!