They have "studied the problems of slum-life,"
(A venture which brought them renown,)
Though the blood and the sweat
And the smells that they met.
Drove them back to their homes uptown.

They were seized with a fainting sensation
As they passed us in filth without name,
But they thought that they knew
What "the masses" pass through,
In keeping the rules of the game.

Not a laugh did they hear on their journey,—
To smile had become a lost art.

But they never drew near

To help drive 'way a tear

Or to cheer up a dull aching heart.

Each soul that they met as they lingered,
Seemed damned to an eternal hell.
But the aim of our strife,

And our struggle in life.

Is always to break from our cell.

If we're judged by their rules of the battle,

Or tried by their rules of the game,

We would ne'er win the fight

By the power of our might.

Nor be counted with those who o'ercame.

But the Great Referee of the Contest.

Whose judgments ne'er come with a snap.-
For He knows the whole game,
And He knows why we're lame,
He'll give us a big handicap.