No man can shape his destiny,
Though ardent his desire,
Or shift his heavy load elsewhere,
Should he perchance to tire.
Though weak or mighty he may be,
Though he may 'choose and fend,'
The given road allotted him
Is his road to the end.

The plodding soul was born to plod,
The foiler born to foil;
The driver born to wield the rod,
The toiler born to toil.
'Tis not the prestige of your cast
Among the roles of earth,
But how well you do what you do
That demonstrates your worth.