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The original publication details are as follows:
Title: College rhymes : an anthology of verse
Author: Alpers, O. T. J. (Oscar Thorwald Johan)
Published: Whitcombe & Tombs, Auckland, N.Z., 1923
COLLEGE RHYMES
116
Gather, my people, round about your Queen!
Though I have not the hues of grey and gold
Which kindly Time lets fall upon the old,
Like my great sisters, reverend and serene,
Who full five hundred crowded years have seen, —
I have young blood and stirrings manifold
And soarings of the Spirit, swift and bold;
Shall I not glory in my lustres ten f
I bear no weight of crushing centuries;
I never wore the shackles of a creed,
And am not maimed and scarred with brutal chains
No drowsy potion lurks within my veins.
I dread not heresy, nor sloth, nor greed,
But gaze into the dawn with fearless eyes.
Arnold Wall
College Rhymes
AN ANTHOLOGY OF VERSE
WRITTEN BY
MEMBERS OF CANTERBURY COLLEGE
1873 1923
O. T. J. ALPERS
Edilet-tn-ChieJ
T. W. CANE i RENE WILSON
J. H. E. SCHRODER MAUD HERRIOTT
Co-Editors
WHITCOMBE ® TOMBS LIMITED
Auckland, Christcburck, Dunedin and Wellington. N.Z. Melbourne and London
12
SUBSCRIPTION EDITION
To the Memory of the
Founders of Canterbury College
this Book is Dedicated by her Graduates
in Grateful Acknowledgment
of their Wisdom, Foresight and Love of Learning
J. C. Bradshaw, Mm. Doc.
Repeal for Chorus
Cantuariensium Carmen Academicum
Yrbe nostra quaenam urbs
plus habet nitorisT
quaeuam plena gratiae
fructuosioris ?
iactat campos überes,
colies, flumen, flores,
conditores prouidos
patriosque mores
iactat praeter cetera
summam uenustatem
Cantuariensium
Yniuersitatem.
Templum hoc magnificum
uirtutis, doctrinae
omant aulae, porticus, :
omant officinae
bibliothecam capit
aulas dirimentem,
regiam mechanicam
fumum euomentem.
celebremus splendidam
ob amoenitatem
Cantuariensium
Vniuersitatem.
Inter laudes summa laus
sunt adulescentes,
Flos latae prouinciae.
hue conuenientes.
inter sese comiter
sexus aemulantur:
omnes academiam
pii uenerantur.
celebremus quae mouet
tantam pietatem
Cantuariensium
Vniuersitatem
Professores tribuunt
institutionem,
ipsorum societas
eruditionem.
arti dialecticae
feruidi studemus;
colimus nos musicam,
fabulas docemus.
celebremus quae parat
hanc humanitatem
Cantuariensium
Vniuersitatem.
Sapimus desipimus
idem mente sana
sustinet athletics
membra quoque sana.
quindecim folliculum
lutei sectantur;
super rete uirgines
pilam iaculantur.
celebremus quae parat
hanc iucunditatem
Cantuariensium
Vniuersitatem.
Alma mater in polum
laudibus tollatur,
magis et magis sua
fama perfruatur.
senatores floreant,
bene moderentur:
professores floreant,
celsa meditentur.
claram Deus sospitet
in aetemitatera
Cantuariensium
Vniuersitatem.
Hugh Stewart.
Preface
The verses in this Anthology are the work of men and women who have attended Lectures or taken their degree at Canterbury College at some time or other during the first fifty years of its history. The volume asks a welcome mainly from members of the College, for whom primarily it has been compiled : they alone will fully appreciate the topical allusions and personal references to be found in its pages. Most of the verses have been printed before: on Diploma Day Song Sheets, in the Canterbury College University Review, in volumes of verse separately published, or in earlier anthologies; The Australasian Students’ Song Book, New Zealand Verse (Currie and Alexander), The Jubilee Book of Canterbury Rhymes
(Alpers). Our acknowledgments are also due to the Christchurch “Press” and “Sun”; to the Sydney “Bulletin,” and the “Triad,” to the Christ’s College Register, and the Girls’ High School Magazine. It has not always been possible, owing to shortness of time, to apply for permission to produce, either to authors or publishers; we tender our apologies and thanks.
Specially written for the Jubilee of the College and for this volume are the prefatory sonnet by Professor Arnold Wall and the Cantuariensium Carmen Academicum by Professor Hugh Stewart. The music for this has been composed by Dr. Bradshaw. The etching which forms the frontispiece is the work of Mr. Ronald McKenzie, a member of the staff of the School of Art.
We desire to express our thanks to the publishers, Messrs. Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd., and to their staff for the very great interest they have taken in the publication.
The profits—and it is confidently anticipated there will be substantial profits—will be handed over to the fund now being raised for the purpose of placing a window in the north end of the College Hall in memory of students of Canterbury College
who fell in the Great War
0. T. J. Alpers.
T. W. Cane.
J. U. E. Schroder.
Irene Wilson.
Maud E. Ilerriot.
Christchurch, May, 1923
Contents
PAGE
Introductory xvii
PART I.
Long Live Canterbury College 3
Ad Lydiam 4
Redeant Saturnia Regna 6
Quot Homines Tot Sententiae 8
Occidit Miserum Crambe Repetita Pupillum 9
"A College-of-Wales" Young Man 11
"Bicky" 13
"The College Engineers" 15
Cantilena Cantuariensis 16
Bull Froggie 18
Secret Society 19
"The Otagiad" 20
Gay Helvetia 23
The King of the Fortunate Islands 25
Registrar Joynt 28
Of Lispeth at College 30
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Canterbury College 32
When Knights Were Bold 35
A Moral Poem About Lost Antiquities 36
To a Young Lady Just Entering the University 38
Two Miniatures 38
The Rhyme of the Rector 39
Song of the Dissolute Young Man 41
Ode to a Certain Professor 42
Nursery Rhymes 43
Lines to the Drama Society 44
"Intrant Animalia...." 46
Iste Professor 47
"Ode to Infinity" 48
The Song of the Sport 50
Tea at College 52
PART II.
The Passing of the Forest 57
The Lawyer's Bride 60
Two Pictures 62
Saturday Night 63
The Grey Company 65
Spring Fires 67
CONTENTS
PAGE
Slumber Song 68
Onawe 69
When Lilac Blooms 71
Mein Kind, Wir Waren Kinder 72
The True Immortals 74
One by One 76
Autumn 77
Sonnet to Robert Browning 78
Rectius Vives 79
Extremum Tanain 80
The Casualty Lists 81
A Time Will Come 82
The Old Botanist's Farewell to the Southern Alps 83
Pan 85
Pantoum of the Plug 86
Two Voices 87
Summer Longing 89
Upon the Hearth 90
Landabunt Alii 91
The Reformer 93
Six-Thirty 94
Evensong 95
Arcady 96
Ecce Homo 97
Non omnis moriar 99
Light and Shade 100
My Pool 101
Antumn in Christchurch 102
Hougomont, 1815 103
Desire 109
"A Very Gallant Gentleman" 115
The Street 116
Triolets 117
"God the Invisible King" 118
The Answer 119
Heathcote 121
To Timothy 123
Eighteen 123
Short Stop: Hagley Park, Christchurch 124
September 124
Joy 125
Tu Ne Quaesieris 126
Notes 127
Goblins 122
Nocturne 114
Rangiora 11l
List of Subscribers
H. D. Acland, B.A. (Oxon.)
C. E. Adams, D.Sc.
J. C. Adams, B.A. (Oxon.)
R. Allan
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P. H. X. Alpers
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D. Arnold
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Miss D. W. M. Bowie, M.A.
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The Right Rev. M. Brodie, D.D.
Professor J. Macmillan Brown,
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Miss N. M. S. Bruce, M.A
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S. Bullock
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T. W. Cane, M.A.
Canterbury Club
Canterbury College Library,
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Mrs. W. H. Clark, M.A.
C. E. Clavdon
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Professor J. B. Condliffe, M.A
J. S. S. Cooper, M.A., B.Sc.
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L. R. R. Dennie, M.A.
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J. P. Firth, C.M.G., B.A.
J. A. Flesher
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A. D. Ford
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F. W. Foster, B.A.
R. P. Furness, B.A.
LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS
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J. Glasgow, LL.R
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W. M. Hamilton
Mrs. E. J. Harrington
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Professor J. Hight, M.A., Litt.D.
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Miss M. C. Mills, B.A.
F. Milner, M.A.
Mitchell Library
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T. H. E. Schroder, M.A.
W. L. Scott, M.A., B.Sc
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S. Hurst Seager, M.R.1.8.A
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LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS
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The above 170 subscribers have subscribed for 175 copies. These with 25 EdirilLM7«o eW a,d p ' eser ' ta,lon purposes make a total for the Subscription .tdjtion of 200 copies. To this sumbcr it is strictly limited.
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INTRODUCTORY
A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF CANTERBURY COLLEGE.
In a letter addressed to the Editor of the “Canterbury University College Review,” and printed a year ago, among other suggestions for the celebration of the Jubilee of the College, I put forward a proposal for the publication of an anthology of College verse, and added, with a light heart,
“That will be your job. Mr. Editor.” In a circular issued a few weeks ago, inviting subscriptions to this volume, I stated, in the same irresponsible mood, that the book would open with
an Introduction “in reminiscent vein,” giving an account of the Dramatic and Literary activities of members of the College during its first half century. Both suggestions have turned into boomerangs: upon me has fallen the position of Chief Editor, and to me also has been assigned the responsibility of writing that Introduction “in reminiscent vein.”
The task of selecting and editing the material in the volume has been shared by my co-editors; without their able help and co-operation it would have been quite impossible to do the work in the time available, or at all. Bach one of us shares fully with the others the responsibility for the choice made; and each one of us, equally with the others, must bear the blame for those faults of judgment and errors of omission which appear to be inevitable in any anthology. But the shortcomings of this Introduction are all my own.
Of the first ten years of the history of Canterbury College I am unable to speak from personal knowledge. During its second decade I was closely associated with its life either as a
xv ii
INTRODUCTORY
student or as a subordinate member of its teaching staff: and since that time I have always been able to maintain some degree of connection with it, to keep its memories fresh, and its friendships unbroken. That must constitute my qualification for writing this chapter in its history.
The students in the early years were necessarily composed of men and women engaged in professional and business pursuits in the town. To them Canterbury College was a place where they attended lectures and sat for examinations. They had little enough time for that —none for anything else. But there was always Saturday night—even the titanic energy and perfervid enthusiasm of “The Father of Canterbury College,” Professor Macmillan Brown, left Saturday night free of lectures. And very soon Saturday night was set apart for something not less valuable but less formal than lectures. The Dialectic Society was formed in 1878, and at its meetings students began to write essays not intended to be “marked,” and papers not destined to rank for “passes.” The Society was but four years old when it resolved to embark upon a bold course. “Your Committee,” so ran the minute, “beg also to report that they have for some time had under their considera-
tion a proposal to produce a play at the end of the year, after the University examinations, and are in a position to announce that the play will be acted by the students of the College early in December.” Orie notes with interest the words “after the University examinations”: how shocked would have been the earnest men and women of those strenuous times had they foreseen, some twenty years later, an Easter Tournament bisecting the First Term, and a Diploma Day Procession disrupting the Second.
The Play, produced on December 9th, 1881, and repeated on June 15th, 1882, was Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing”—no less! Not a cut abbreviated or bowdlerised “Much Ado,” but the whole play entire as Shakespeare wrote it, properly staged and dressed and acted exclusively by students.
Among the supers at the second performance was Heinrich
xviii
INTRODUCTORY
von Haast, destined later to take a prominent part in the life of the College. I quote his impressions of “Much Ado”:—
“Prior to coming to College I had been taken to see the great dramatic effort of the pioneer students, ‘Much Ado About Nothing,’ in St. Michael’s schoolroom. It was rather in the primitive style of art, but the acting was good, and it would be hard at any time to find a better couple as Dogberry and Verges than Tony Foster and Ben Connal, whose dry humour exactly suited the roles. Then, as subsequently, it was the ridiculous that struck me, and has lingered in my memory. The costumes had been borrowed from the Sunnyside Lunatic Asylum. Claudio appeared in a pair of crimson shorts, with large frills of lace at the knee, strongly suggestive of lingerie. There were not enough tights to go round, and the burly Antonio was forced to don a pair of grey underpants that rucked damnably at the knee as with admirable passion he declaimed,
‘Boys, apes, braggarts, jacks, milksops.’
“In the first performance, Mrs. Alfred Merton (Miss Grierson) was a piquant Beatrice, Thornton the Benedick, and Guise Brittan, Leonato. At a subsequent perform-
ance Brittan took Benedick, and Hogben Leonato. I became no longer a critic, but one of the company, as a member of the Watch.”
A laudable, if venturesome devotion to “the legitimate” continued for some years to inspire the dramatic efforts of the students. On Diploma Day in 1884 “She Stoops to Conquer” was played. It was acted on a stage ten feet by nothing, at
“Wainoni,” the beautiful if bizarre home of Professor Biekerton, on one of the many occasions when his generous hospitality brightened the lives of a hard-worked generation of students. And the fare on this occasion was generous indeed; “She Stoops to Conquer” was followed by Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Patience,” with Mrs. T. Garrard in the name-part, Andrew Anderson as Grosvenor, and J. J. Kinsey (now Sir Joseph) as a
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INTRODUCTORY
lissom and tuneful Bunthorne. As the stage was not much larger than a hearthrug, the “Twenty Love Sick Maidens” were, I remember, for the nonce, reduced to four.
The producer of “She Stoops” was George Hogben, afterwards Inspector-General of Schools, who played “Old Hardcastle.” He was an experienced amateur, and had played, I think, the same part in theatricals at Cambridge University, and the players owed much to his coaching in the “business” of the piece. Heinrich von Haast played Tony Lumpkin as to the manner born. Hastings and Marlowe were acted by Louis Cohen and W. H. A. Craddock. Of the ladies in the caste Miss Beatrice Gibson (Mrs. Talbot) “stooped to conquer” in the part of a very fascinating Miss Hardcastle, while Miss Helen Connon (Mrs. Hurst Seager) was a sprightly Constance Neville. A well-turned prologue, written by R. P. Irvine, now Professor of Economics at the University of Sydney, was declaimed by Miss Gibson, and formed, I think, the first of all verse, not perhaps written, but certainly printed, of any student of the College. I have made unavailing efforts to secure a copy of the programme on which the prologue was printed, in order to include it in the Anthology, but I am enabled to quote the following extract reproduced from the C.U.C. Review of October, 1917:
“Peace, Goldsmith, to thy soul; thou’rt not forgot;
Thy mem’ry, purged of every trivial blot,
Hath found a pathway o’er the seas, and ’cross
A stormy century of years withouten loss;
And now ’neath other skies, and in a land
Of virgin wealth, whose acres want the hand
Of brawny millions, where no ‘Auburn sweet’
Lies desolate beneath the iron feet
Of greed and pride; here, by a gliding stream
Where thoughtful youths of ‘Will of Avon’ dream
The visions of thy brain do live again.
And thy Thalia lures into her train
A band of maidens fair, of cultured air,
And youths of polished wit and debonair.”
INTRODUCTORY
I witnessed that performance: and for me at least the glamour of that night will never fade. A boy of seventeen, attending lectures but as yet not matriculated, until that night my one ambition had been to become that exalted being—a Bachelor of Arts—and to be asked to tea for it: henceforth, perish such pedantries. In my dreams gown and trencher yielded place to sock and buskin: I, too, would be a College amateur and strut it behind the footlights with the limelight turned full on. The opportunity soon came: Hogben and von Haast—the great ones of the earth —condescended upon me, and I made my debut on the stage of the College Hall in some scenes from Feilding’s “Mock Doctor”—in a female part! For twenty years the lure of the footlights held me till I made my final bow—“positively his last appearance”—in Hare’s role of Sir Peter Lund in “A Fool’s Paradise.”
The next play to be produced by students—apart from dramatic readings and occasional scenes* played at Dialectic Society Concerts—was Sheridan’s “Rivals”—staged at St. Michael’s schoolroom on Diploma Day, 1887. It is to be feared that the play was selected less because of its general suitability or literary merit, than because the promoter of the entertainment saw much “fat” for himself in the part of Bob Acres. Much was left to the imagination: lace curtains suspended from the flies indicated “A room in Captain Absolute’s lodgings”; creton curtains, ditto, were accepted by an indulgent audience as depicting with sufficient verisimilitude “A Street in Bath.” Bob Acres, in his zeal for realism, was so bedaubed with white grease-paint in the duel scene, to indicate the fear he was not artist enough to convey without it, that when he fainted in the arms of Sir Lucius o’Trigger he left a white profile outlined on the breast of a black velvet coat, as an indelible proof of his emotion. J. P. Firth, as Captain Absolute, dominated the stage in a very literal sense; David Watt played Sir Lucius with a most
*E.g., “Mr. Verdant Green is made a Mason,” adapted and acted in 1886 by von Haast, Webb, Ward, Meek, Hargreaves, and Alpers.
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INTRODUCTORY
convincing, because native, brogue; E. R. Anderson was Sir Anthony Absolute to the life; and Mrs. Malaprop was acted with great success by Miss Florence Fletcher. Others in the caste included S. Hurst Seager and his wife, Miss Nellie Gribben (Mrs. Dunne), R. M. Laing, W. F. Ward, and A. R. Meek.
On Diploma Day, 1888, we produced—this time at the Oddfellows’ Hall in Lichfield street—a novel experiment in comedy—“ Aristophanes-up-to-date” or “The New Learning.” Professor Haslam had translated and modernised “The Clouds” into a most amusing and—even from the actor’s point of view-—most effective stage-play. Professor Haslam was not merely a man of the finest scholarship, but had a genius for translation. He could with equal ease turn the pretiosa felicitas of Vergil’s Aeneid into dignified and rhythmic English prose or transmute the “Sermo Merus” of that most delightful man-about-town, Horatius Flaceus, into a racy cockney jargon that caught inimitably the spirit of the original.* These gifts of translation were fully applied in the “book” of our comedy. The satire of the original was boldly diverted into modern channels, and turned with much point upon latter-day foibles. Professor Bickerton’s famous “Partial Impact” formed, equally with the philosophy of Sokrates, a target for the shrewd wit of old Strepseiades. Due regard was paid to the modem taste for realism. Sokrates imperilled his life by descending from the flies in a buck-basket, and his “Reflectory” was set on fire in the last act by the infuriated Strepseiades with a pyrotechnic extravagance that shewed the actors had unlimited confidence in the efficiency of the Christchurch Fire Brigade, whose station at that date was next door to the Hall. The performance passed off without even the proverbial hitch, except that I was again unlucky with my make-up. The huge proboscis in putty, with which as Strepseiades I was necessarily adorned, gave trouble: as the
*Cf. Sermonum Lib. I. 5, 15.... 16. “Absentem ut cantat amieam . . . . nauta atque viator.” While the bargee and the bagman sang “The girl I left behind me.”
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INTRODUCTORY
evening proceeded and I warmed to my work I parted with my nose by instalments. The truly Gilbertian songs composed by the Professor for the characters of the Just and the Unjust Arguments (J. P. Firth and David Watt) got double encores. Louis Cohen’s Pheidippides, in spite of a most un-Greek moustache, received an ovation; and the fall of the curtain was greeted with loud calls for “Author.” When the stage-manager apologised for the author’s inability to take the call, as he had died several thousand years ago, an undergraduate in the gallery answered with “Trot us out his mummy, then.”
Emboldened by success, the following year, 1889, we put on Sardou’s three-act comedy “A Scrap of Paper.” This was my first experience of stage-management, and I shudder in restrospect at my own audacity. I had modestly cast myself for a minor part, because I was billed to play Pygmalion in W. S. Gilbert’s “Pygmalion and Galatea” in the Hunt Club theatricals about the same time; and so greatness in the shape of stage-management was thrust upon me. With little experience and less money to help us, we essayed the bold task of producing a piece that requires for its success innumerable accessories—the property-list comprised 150 items—and yet in the jargon of the critics the mise-en-scene would have done credit to a trained company; for what we lacked in experience was made up in enthusiasm. The play is full of complicated entrances and exits: there are at times as many as eight actors grouped on the stage at once: and the action moves, or should move, as rapidly as in a modern farcical comedy. Yet there was only one solitary stage-wait, and that, to the delight of the other performers, was made by the harassed stage-manager himself.
There is a wicked story told at the manager’s expense by von Haast (who played Archie, a schoolboy, in a very tight-fitting Eton suit). “What if the stage-manager’s irascible nature flamed up sometimes at rehearsal in a volcanic outburst? When the ebullition had died down, he would, in characteristic fashion, take a cab for the night (to convey the actors to their homes) and express a contrite apology to those upon whom he had
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discharged the vials of his wrath. ‘Wait for the laughs’ was an injunction he continually laid upon us (without regard to the time of departure of the last tram). But the audience took some time to warm up, and at the end of the first act our manager stalked off the stage, with the gloom of Hamlet and the words (uttered in the hollow voice of a crushed tragedian) ‘Not a hand, bhoys, not a ha-and’ —an expression that became a household word at College for some time afterwards.”* But the story—like the report of Mark Twain’s death, —is very much exaggerated.
For all its difficulties it is not too much to say that up to that time no amateur play in Christchurch had been so well acted. This was very largely due to the fact that the leading role was played by Miss Rose Seager (Mrs. H. Marsh). Her beautiful speaking voice, her fine stage presence, and her great natural gifts combined to create for her a reputation as an amateur actress that few have equalled and none have excelled. J. P. Firth, too, in the leading male part, gave a finished and convincing performance; while W. F. Ward as Dr. Penguin, Miss Kate Mcßae (Mrs. W. F. Ward) as Trixie, Mrs. G. H. Merton in the comedy part of Letitia Penguin, and Miss Lucy Deakin (Mrs. J. A. Flesher) f as the winsome maid, helped to constitute a talented company. Only a week ago there reached me, from one of the ladies in the caste, the programme, printed on satin in gold letters, “With the stage-manager’s compliments’’—preserved for over thirty years as a memento. Does there yet linger about it—or is it only my fancy—a faint fragrance of the Roger and Gallet Attar of Roses with which the gift was originally scented?
The period of legitimate drama at Canterbury College came to an end in the following year—lB9o. We took the bold step
'From Skittish Student to Sedate Senator.” C.U.C. Review, October, 1917. tNow become, as these pages are going through the press, by the election of her husband as Mayor of Christchurch, the first student of Canterbury College to occupy the position of Mayoress.
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of engaging the Theatre Eoyal, and had the temerity to produce—Shakespeare! The performance opened with some scenes from “Love’s Labour’s Lost.” What induced us to make this choice it is difficult now to explain. Did we really believe this juvenile comedy had dramatic value, simply because it was the earliest work of a great master—or was it sheer affectation — an arrogant assumption of preciousness in taste—just as one has heard a critic consciously demode acclaim “Troilus and Cressida” as a masterpiece of tragedy? However that may be, the students who brought so much zeal and ability to the task of acting it, failed to make it interest a modem audience. But the substantial part of the evening’s bill -was the Malvolio scenes from “Twelfth Night.” As lovers of that comedy have no doubt noted, it is possible to present the Malvolio-Olivia plot severed from the Viola-Orsino plot, as an independent play. The cutting and adapting was done by von Haast. The lyrics—and particularly that most beautiful of all:
“Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure ”
were set to music by Lawrence Cane. We were coached by a professional actress, and all the traditional “business” was introduced. No expense was spared in dressing or scenery, and the producer eclipsed all previous efforts in amateur theatricals. Mrs. W. P. Eeeves played Olivia with stately dignity, and Miss M. Y. Gibson was a piquant and delightful Maria. W. F. Ward, David Watt, and C. C. Plante as Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Sir Toby Belch, and Fabian respectively, were great in the roystering scene. None of us will ever forget the mellow brogue of that genial Irishman, David Watt. “A stoup of wine, Maria! . . . She’s a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me.” Von Haast made the outstanding hit of his stage career as the mischievous musical clown Feste. And I—well, I spoke the lines of Malvolio, I trust with “good accent and discretion.” But here, too, perhaps discretion had been the better part of valour. It was at least an honest attempt to carry out Bentley’s conception of Malvolio, as described by Charles Lamb;
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to avoid presenting him as either buffoon or contemptible in the accepted tradition of the modem stage, and to remember, throughout, Elia’s description of him, “He becomes comic but by accident. He is cold, austere, repelling; but dignified, consistent, and, for what appears, rather of an over-stretched morality. . . . His bearing is lofty, a little above his station, but probably not much above his deserts. . . . He looked, spoke, and moved like an old Castilian.’’
How far must achievement have fallen short of ambition! One blushes in the dark to recall the temerity of youth; but we all thought the attempt was worth while; and even among the audience there were those who would much rather have seen University Students fail lamentably in “Hamlet” than succeed hilariously in “Hot Codlins.”
Shakespeare, with amateurs as with professionals, “spelt min.” The house was packed, the curtain did not ring down till 11.30: late as the hour was the audience remained in their seats to give the players a double call. And so it was “excellent fooling when all’s done.” But we had spent half as much again on scenery and accessories as we received at the doors. And as the two stage-struck enthusiasts who had promoted this as well as the preceding performances were responsible for the deficit, they sadly determined for the future to leave the field of legitimate drama for others to sow in.
The others have not yet come. But before me on the table as I write lie a score of fast-fading photographs—of “Captain Absolute” and “Doctor Penguin,” of “Fabian” and “Pheidippides,” of “Tony Lumpkin” and “Toby Belch”— recalling old memories of the brief rivalries that were only mimetic and the lasting friendships that are real*.
For some years play-acting was in abeyance; when it was revived in 1897 it took the form of light burlesque. The revival resulted from the combined enthusiasms of Dundas Walker and T. W. Cane. Walker, who afterwards adopted
*ln these recollections I have quoted frequently from myself: “Sock and Buskin,” O.U.C. Review, October, 1897, but have allowed myself—and the printer’s devil—the privilege of omitting the quotation marks.
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the stage as a profession, was not only a sound actor, but a most versatile and accomplished dancer. Female parts in burlesque were his strong suit: Cane too could dance and sing, but his best contribution to the partnership was his gift for light verse. He could group into the smallest possible space a host of humorous incongruities woven together with much felicity of expression, and a genial thread of cynicism. G. T. Weston and J. Glasgow, Archie Blair and E. F. Johansen, Clive Garsia and C. Maclaverty (not yet Reverend) were members of the merry band, and I acted as stage-manager.
The first piece produced was the burlesque “William Tell.” The best part of “the book” was the introduced songs written by Cane, one of which, “Gay Helvetia,” appears in this volume.
By the next year, 1898, the Walker-Cane coterie had formed themselves into “The Canterbury College Dramatic Club” and produced at St. Michael’s Schoolroom “Acis and Galatea,” a clever burlesque somewhat after the manner of Trevelyan’s better known “Horace at Athens.” Again Dundas Walker’s wonderful dancing and natural acting made the success of that piece; and again Cane’s original verses, which formed the libretto to some bright incidental music, gave literary value to an otherwise commonplace text.
In both these productions Dundas Walker not only painted the scenery and manufactured the “properties,” he designed the dresses. But his designs could not always be carried out; res angusta domi. I think it was in one of these burlesques that a Greek soldier appeared parlously attired. Helmet and breast-plate, greaves and arm-pieces were of highly burnished tin-smith’s ware, but so thin that they “crackled” as he moved. Tunic and skirt were of butter-muslin, but alas! it fluttered flimsily in the draught from the wings. A graduate with a turn for epigram was appealed to for his opinion of the soldier’s get-up—“A cross,” said he, “between a disappointed balletdancer and a fireman en deshabille.”
It was not till ten years later that Maurice Martin resuscitated the vogue of burlesque. But this time the burlesque
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was written as well as acted by students. Maurice Martin’s “The Aftermath” in 1908, and “His Infinite Variety” in 1909, were produced on Diploma Night. “The Aftermath” I did not see; but of “His Infinite Variety” I was again stagemanager.
Maurice Martin possessed literary talents of a very high order and might have gone far. I quote from a contemporary criticism of the second of these plays: “Under Mr. Martin’s skilful treatment there was never a situation that was objectionably obvious, or a remark that was banal. If Mr. Martin can do these things in his youth; if he retains his facility for tuneful numbers; if he relies more upon himself, putting greater faith in his own undoubted originality, it is almost reasonable to prophesy that there will be a time when the names of his plays will flame from every hoarding.”
Martin went to Cambridge—the first of our “Trinity” scholars; all his friends—and I count myself among them, — hoped great things; but the rich promise of his boyhood was cut short by his premature death in 1913.
From this time on theatrical performances of one kind or another have been a part of each succeeding Diploma Day or “Students’ Carnival” as it is now called. In 1912 and 1913, the staple of the entertainment was again burlesque—a travesty upon the plays then in vogue:— “Damlet the Dane” “A Pool in the Case” and “Blue Bottle” (The Blue Bird) were types of these. Local colour—at times a very vivid colour—was laid on with a broad brush; College events, and current politics formed the target of clever satire. The performers were actorauthors; they wrote or collaborated in writing the burlesques and cast themselves for the “fat” parts. The wit of Philip Carrington, the drollery of C. S. Thomas, who with a native gift for mimicry excelled in what he called “Bellow-drama,” the original humour and sound acting of Roy Twyneham and the dancing of W. S. Wauchop—these are the things that on my mind at least have left the strongest impression.
Then followed “Revues”—and now one is lost in a flight of ephemera. “Crash!” “Gosh !” “Biff!” Their titles it must
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be confessed are no aid to distinct recollection. Topical, amusing, witty,— not infrequently humorous —the work of clever young men: A. W. Brown is the bright particular star among them. They collaborate on “the book” and one may suspect “build it up” as rehearsals progress, or new happenings in Town or College give cues for new gags. The acting is bright, vivid and—the word seems appropriate—full of “pep.” Success too justifies this form of entertainment, and the public flock to it in their hundreds. One wonders if these clever young men could not do something more worth while, something with more literary quality—more permanence. But youth will be served and —perhaps—one becomes groovy.
Two years before the Jubilee of the College, however, an event happened full of good omen for the second half century. This was the formation of the Canterbury College Drama Society. Professor Shelley arrived from England in 1920 to take up the duties of the new Chair of Education; among his enthusiasms—and he has many—is a love for dramatic literature and its presentation on the stage. His readings from the dramatic poets, his lectures on the art of play-writing and playacting aroused in a new generation of students the ambitions that had filled the old. Before long the Drama Society came into being—not, be it noted, a “Dramatic Society” or a club for Amateurs, but a society devoted to the study as well as to the presentation on the stage of dramatic works.
In a Presidential address to the Society in 1922, Professor Arnold Wall dwelt upon the possibilities of New Zealand expressing its national self through drama, and suggested the hope that a New Zealand Repertory Theatre might soon come into existence. In the meantime the Drama Society has made a beginning. A comedy, “The Two Mr. Wetherbys,” was produced in 1921. Last year we had Bernard Shaw’s “Man of Destiny. ’ ’ The play, as might be expected, is a one man play, and the one man was Professor Shelley in the character of Napoleon. The other three characters were played by Miss Prances Fairbairn, P. T. Cox, and J. Earl.
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The hope for the future of the Society lies chiefly in this, that its founder and leader takes an interest in drama which is not merely academic, and that his enthusiasm is controlled by histrionic capacity as well as experience. It is not too extravagant to hope that our own College may contribute to the creation of a New Zealand School of Drama and the formation of a National Repertory Theatre. The Drama Society for all its small beginnings may yet attain a place of distinction in the history, some day to be written, of dramatic art in the Dominion.
In the early days, as we have seen, play-acting led to verse-writing, and the two were interwoven. Towards the end of the eighties, Diploma Day exuberance began to find vent in topical songs, set to popular airs. In them genial satire of Professors, comment on passing events, and undergraduates’ propaganda found lyrical expression. Heinrich von Haast, an inveterate punster and facile writer of rhymes, was responsible for many of the earlier songs. His “Long Live Canterbury College,” had the place of honour on the first Diploma Day song sheet (1889) and it has been printed at the head of the annual song sheets ever since. Some dozen Diploma Day songs are included in the volume. They record the foibles of Professors or the eccentricities of officials; they celebrate the creation of a new faculty, or the erection of a new wing; they sing the joy of sports and games and the general beastliness of “swot.” Some are witty and polished verse, others are frankly doggerel, but doggerel spiced with humour. Not all are equally original; the chief indebtedness is to W. S. Gilbert, because Sullivan’s airs were tuneful; but here and there songs of other schools and colleges are parodied with more or less freedom. Three are in Latin and these not the least witty. All of them it is hoped contribute to the object of this book, to place on record for her sons and daughters the life of our Alma Mater in the days of her youth.
The sister University of Otago established a monthly “Review” early in the eighties. In its pages appeared, in 1888.
INTRODUCTORY
W. E. Ward’s Macaronic “The Otagiad,” in which with mingled wit and scholarship he celebrated the Inter-Varsity Football match of that year. But it was not till 1897, that Canterbury College followed the example of Otago and published its own “Review.” H. H. Ward was the first editor; and he was able to set a standard of excellence that has been well maintained.
Several of his successors have been men of great literary gifts and three of them at least are represented in the Anthology: A. E. Currie (Editor in 1904), Philip Carrington (1911), and J. H. E. Schroder, co-editor of this volume, who conducted the ‘ ‘ Review ’ ’ with conspicuous ability through all the difficult years of war—and after, (1915-1920). Those who read Currie’s “Laudabunt Alii”, Carrington’s “Hougomont 1815”—a poem that won the Chancellor’s Medal at Cambridge,-—and the selections over Schroder’s signature will realise how much the “Review” owed in forming and sustaining its standards to men of their tastes and gifts. Number dilfers from number in quality; song birds are not swallows that come with every spring; but it is rarely that a “Review” is not brightened by at least one good contribution in verse. The best of them are here included.
The Dialectic Society has always been the foster-mother of poets and essayists. In the early eighties several of the Presidential Addresses were printed in pamphlet form and rare copies of these are still treasured: —Professor Macmillan Brown, “Student life and the fallacies that oftenest beset it” (1881) ; Professor Cook,“ University Life” (1882); and Professor ITaslam, “Dialectic: its early history, and its place in education” (1884). In later years papers by students or ex-students were from time to time printed: “Beautiful, Passionate Italy” was the title of an address given by James Hay on his return from his “grand tour” in 1886.* Charles Chilton’s Presidential address on “The History of the Dialectic Society,” was printed
*A sentence from Hay's paper still clings in my memory: After his first day's sight-seeing in Rome he went tired to bed —to dream that he was 1 ‘Walking down the Appian Way, arm-in-arm with Ut and the Subjunctive."
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in the C.U.C. Review, and will, I understand, be re-issued in pamphlet form at the Jubilee—a very valuable contribution to College history. A paper by Apirana Turupu Ngata—the first member of the Maori race to become a university graduate —“Echoes of a Dying Race”, drew warm praise from critics in the London Press and formed the subject of a highly eulogistic article in the London “Spectator.”
In 1887, when I was secretary of the Dialectic I made one innovation upon its stereotyped programme which I am glad to think has held its place since. This was Olla Podrida Night, when anonymous contributions in verse and prose were sent in by members, read at the meeting, and submitted to a vote to determine their order of merit. Many of these contributions have found a place in the “Review,” and some a place in this book. Not a few students ventured their first flight in the safe anonymity of Olla Podrida, and took courage to write more from a favourable vote.
It only remains to introduce more formally the contents of the Anthology.
All the writers are members of Canterbury College. Some only attended courses of lectures without matriculating: others became, but remained, undergraduates: a large number are graduates and three are or have been Professors. Most of the selections have been printed before; but many are now published for the first time. Of these two have been specially written for the Anthology; the Sonnet by Professor Arnold Wall which faces the frontispiece, and the Carmen Academicum by Professor Hugh Stewart. Canterbury College is relatively less devoted to classical learning than it was in my day, hut it is not yet entirely given over to mathematicians and economists, to commercial scientists or “base mechanicals.” This fine song may help to keep alive the love of scholarship. It is worth while to learn Latin if only to be able to sing it; for its hammering rhythm stirs the heart like the roll of drums. May
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generations of students yet to be join in singing its refrain to Dr. Bradshaw’s noble music:
“claram Deus sospitet
in aeternitatem
Cantuariensium
Vniuersitatem! ”
The Anthology is divided into two parts, though the editors have refrained from attempting to label them separately. Enough to say that Part I. contains topical verse. Each selection has some reference to College events and personalities or to the happenings and characters in the public life of the Dominion. It is on the whole in lighter vein. Part 11. contains verse that is associated with Canterbury College not in theme, but merely from the circumstances that the writer received some part of his education within its walls, whether as teacher or taught. It has not been found practicable to adopt any definite principle of arrangement except the chronological. The reader must browse at will and cull flowers where he finds them. Some of the writers are already well known. Jessie Mackay, Dora Wilcox and the late Mary Colborne-Yeel have published volumes of verse; so too have Arnold Wall, W. P. Reeves, Johannes C. Andersen, and W. S. Harris. Several pieces here printed have appeared in anthologies before; in “The Australasian Students’ Song Book,” in Currie and Alexander’s “Anthology of New Zealand Verse” or in my own “Jubilee Book of Canterbury Rhymes.” Other poems—notably those of 0. N. Gillespie—were first published in the “Sydney Bulletin.” I fear we have taken French leave; there was not always time to ask permission either of authors or of publishers; all that can be done is to make tbis belated acknowledgment and to tender thanks.
Canterbury College has cause to be proud of her sons and daughters. Several have already attained distinction beyond our own shores: as novelists the late H. B. Harriot Watson and A. J. Buchanan; in science, Sir Ernest Rutherford; in classical scholarship, Benjamin Connal and Leo Greenwood; in the
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public life of the Empire, Sir William Harris. Even of the little band of writers represented in this volume some have already made their mark in life. Others are young men and women of abundant promise but as yet of no achievement; two are girls who left their school but yesterday. The contents of the book are therefore necessarily of varying degrees of merit. But our aim has been not merely to honour success; much more has it been to encourage endeavour.
I do not anticipate that a second edition of this Jubilee Anthology will be called for. But I do predict that a Centenary Anthology will be issued in 1973. I trust that some at least of the verses printed in this volume will be repeated in that, and I even dare to hope that its Editor will be gracious enough to say in his Introduction that the tone of apology with which I have introduced the verse of some of the younger contributors to this book has proved to be uncalled for, because they have, in the years that lie between, attained an assured place in the world of letters.
0. T. J. ALPERS.
Christchurch, 1923.
PART I
46
Long Live Canterbury College
Long live Canterbury College, long live College,
She has reared and brought us up;
At her fount we’ve drunk of knowledge, drunk of knowledge,
Sipped it from her classic cup
Then, long live each Professor, the greater and the lesser,
Long life and health to all;
And long live all the undergrads., they really are not half so
bad as people them would call.
Now’s the time for mirth and play On our glad Diploma Day.
Long speeches only bore us, so sing in merry chorus a stave to pass the time:
Our song is done, the festival’s begun
Diploma Day Song (1889).
Ad Lydiam
Pace tua, Lydia mea,
pauca quaedam sunt monenda
tibi iam futurae nobis
ciui et eolumnae rerum.
uereor enim ne matrona
ista (cui est nomen Linton)
de Millenio Mulierum
uana loquens te seducat,
absit igitur inuidia
ista qua solemus ambo
studia, indolem, uirtutem
inter nosmet comparare.
melius enim nobis semper
uiro erit et puellae
nostrum currum animo uno
quamuis binis iugis trahere.
necnon dum consilia noua
forte pendas pectore tuo,
turpem fumum, turpius uinum.
omnia mala deletura,
caue tune cupiens tollere
saeua et crudelia bella.
nimio studio eaptans pacem
railitem putes delendum
4
48
AD LYDIAM
adhuc enim uiris casus
graues rerum debent tradi;
noli, Lydia, tangere tela
tibi telae sunt seruandae,
fuge uero, mulier, fuge
talia stolida consilia
quibus non millennium nobis
uideo esse iam futurum.
nimio enim pads studio,
ni appareat pads bora,
mihi quidem ueniet dolor
tibi fatum peius meo.
Diploma Day Song (1891)
49
Redeant Saturnia Regna
Air —“ Trelawny.”
In the days of old, ere the world grew cold,
When our Universitee
Sent monkey graduates marching up
To a Chancellor Chimpanzee,
Then orangoutang toffs were our only Profs.,
And palm tree groves our halls,
And Lancaster Park was a jungle dark,
And cocoanuts made footballs.
Chorus —
0 sometimes still, try hard as we will
We sigh for those days again.
When each undergrad, was a monkey glad—
They were palmy ages then!
For a Registrar we’d a gorilla,
But there wasn’t a library fine;
And we lay at our ease till noon in the trees,
And we didn’t turn out at nine:
And a Board was a thing to be sat upon then, ;
Not a thing that sat upon you
And we cracked our nuts with a big stick, which
Was the only Malet we knew
Matric. was a thing of a jump and a swing.
In those days gone hy so far;
And we took our degrees in the forks of the trees,
With a leaf for a diploma;
And he bossed the rest who could climb the best,
But he did it without red tape;
0 he wasn’t so fat you could bet your hat
When the Registrar was an ape!
REDE ANT SATURN IA REGNA
Then we learned a date by its flavour sweet,
Not out of a rubbishy book;
And extracted our roots when we wanted to eat,
Nor bothered a jot for a Cook;
0 we eared not a dam for any exam,
And life was worth living then!
’Twas a howling shame when old Darwin came
And turned us all into men.
Yes, that was the day when the world was gay!
With our arts, and science, and such,
All the pains we take are a great mistake
We’ve evolved far, far too much;
For undergrads then, whether monkeys or men,
Were as they will always be;
Wherever you went, out of every ten,
There were nine at the top of the tree!
Diploma Day Song (1892)
7
51
Quot Homines Tot Sententiae
Air : “Vicar of Bray.”
When good Prof. Cook holds forth to us,
On surds and conic sections.
Instructs us in the Calculus
We speak with circumspection;
Say Taylor is our sole delight,
And Parkinson a pleasure,
That English all our hopes doth blight,
And plagues us beyond measure.
I would that all my trials were o’er,
And I a graduate free, sir,
(From lectures, profs., and all such bores)
And M.A., B.Sc., sir.
When on the scene comes smiling Brown,
And English comes in fashion,
The Calculus is hooted down,
It kills imagination;
The soul it cabins and confines,
And cripples it most sorely,
Imagination soars aloft
In Mason and in Morley!
Now Alpers fills the well-known place,
Of wisdom most platonic,
Much famed for dignity and grace,
Professor embryonic;
A model youth devoid of pride,
A warrior at elections,
Just “like the good young man that died”.
All free from imperfections.
Diploma Day Song (1892)
52
Occidit Miserum Crambe Repetita Pupillum
This is the play that Bill wrote-
This is the Dane who was off his head
Who appears in the play that Bill wrote —
This is the book the Professor read
About the Dane who was off his head
Who appears in the play that Bill wrote—
This is the gent of German descent
Who wrote the book the Professor read
About the Dane who was off his head
Who appears in the play that Bill wrote —
These are the notes the Professor embodied
To use in his lectures, when once he’d studied
In an English translation the explanation
(An awfully cute ’un) the learned Teuton
Evolved of the Dane who was not quite sane
Who appears in the play that Bill wrote—
This is the Prof, that read the book
But never agreed with the view it took:
For he knew much better the “Art,” etcetera,
Of Bill aforesaid who wrote the play
About the Dane, who was mad as they say
Than all the German books in a lump
Which explain that the Dane was off his chump
Who appears in the play that Bill wrote—
This is poor Bill who wrote the play;
He’s dead and gone, so he cannot say
What he meant by the Dane of whom it was said
That he may or may not have been off his head,
By the learned Doctor who wrote the screed
With which the Prof, has never agreed,
53
OCCIDIT MISERUM CRAMBE REPETITA PUPILLVM
Who both of them think they know much better
Than Billy himself, his “Art,” etcetera,
And whether he meant the Dane “to be”,
For “that is the question,’’ or “not to be”
As sane as a judge or as mad as a hatter,
Or a little of both —but it don’t much matter
For whichever it was we must all of us cram
The notes of the Prof, to pass our exam.,
Till we’re utterly sick of the Dane called Ham-
let who comes in the play that Bill wrote.
Diploma Day Song (1893)
"A College-of-Wales Young Man"
Air: from “Patience.”
A College-of-Wales young man,
A knowledge-in-bales young man,
A highly-poetic,
And slightly-prophetic,
Aesthetic, magnetic, young man!
An up-to-date young man!
A never-eome-late young man!
A vowel-gradation,
And i-mutation,
A stratification young man!
Chorus —
A jolly-good-sort young man,
Whose-lectures-seem-short young man,
A fill-his-position
With care-and-precision,
A great-acquisition young man.
A sometime-entombed young man,
Though-lately-exhumed young man,
A talk-of-“old Sweet,”
And jump-on-“ old Skeat,”
A “come-sit-at-my-feet” young man!
A hair-with-a-curl young man,
A moustache-with-a-twirl young man,
A got-up-to-kill,
And never-sit still,
Off-his-bike-came-a-spill young man!
11
‘A COLLEGE-OF-WALES YOUNG MAN
A big-Maori-word young man,
Such-as-never-was-heard young man,
A palatalization
Glide-diphthongization
Word-specialization young man,
A dodecaglot young man
A philology-swot young man,
A very unswerving,
And highly deserving
Think-little-of-Irving young man
Diploma Day Song (1899)
55
"Bicky"
Tune: “Bobs.’
Medium video discedere caelum palantesque polo stellas.
There’s a genius here, you know—
That’s Bicky
Whose fame is sure to grow;
Ain’t it, Bick?
There’s not the slightest doubt
He’s the best man round about
For finding queer things out;
Ain’t you, Bick?
Chorus —
So let’s all give a cheer
For Bick, Bick, Bick
For he’s quite without a peer—
Little Bick, Bick, Biek.
It’s only right we ought
Whom he has so ably taught
He’s a jolly good old sort—
Little Bick.
You may lay your bottom dollar On Bick,
That you’ll never find a scholar Like Bick;
But his lectures would be prime
If his speech he would confine
To one thing at a time;
Hear that, Bick?
He’s as happy as a king—
Ain’t you, Bick?
To tell you anything
Ain’t you, Biek?
56
57
“BICKY ”
And he never will get weary
Of answering any query
On the partial impact theory;
Will you, Bick?
He’s painted red and green— Has Bicky—
An extr’or’nary machine;
Ain’t you, Biek?
I ’ll tell you what it’s for
It’s to save no end of jaw
On the periodic law;
Ain’t it, Biek?
Diploma Day Song (1901)
"The College Engineers"
Costume Song: Air, “The British Grenadiers.
Tu regis amnes, tu saevam machinam
Some talk of Deans and Doctors, and some of LL.B. ’s,
And grow inept in grinding for their dull and dead degrees;
But for broad-brimmed jocularity there’s none that can compare
With the rowdy dowdy boys of tow, the College Engineers,
Those men may know the leading points of prehistoric fleas,
But they’ve done no graft at Addington in dirty dungarees.
It’s here our boys have got the bulge, and up-to-date ideas
Are an ever-present glory in our College Engineers.
When ordered by their burly chief to test the strain and stress
Of helicoidal cones and cogs, they have no time to dress,
Or talk of airy nothings with the little College dears:
They graft and come up smiling, do our College engineers.
No time is theirs to conjugate the primal Latin verb,
No time to talk with Wilkie of some cryptogamic herb;
Rank oil is not in sympathy with Gallienic tears,
Though lovely on the blueys of our College Engineers.
They tread the darksome regions where the wild log eater are,
Prefer the grimy cutty to the saunterer’s cigar—
The crash of bolting engines is sweet music in the ears
Of the rowdy boys of oil and tow, the College Engineers.
At times the public’s told that they are thirsty, hot and dry,
And their dryness breeds confusion in the land of x and y,
But the vapid vacant penster and the pale pink paper’s sneers
Are thistledown upon the skin of the College Engineers.
In spite of idiosyncrasies, they’re human beings still,
And after all, we guess it’s fairly up to us to fill
The nippy little Chartreuse, or the long and luscious beer,
To drink success, etcetera, to the College Engineers.
Diploma Day Song (1901)
58
Cantilena Cantuariensis
Rursum peruenimus
ueteri in loco,
paulisper lenimus
studia ioco
uos academicos
Anglicos ehemicos,
atque polemicos
undique uoco.
tolle poemata
diei exspectato,
priseam anthemata
reote cantato!
nouem Sororibus
nostris ex moribus
laetis cum oribus
earmina dato!
cantus diligitur
maxime a nobis,
gaudemus igitur,
canere uobis
übi iocundior
uel uerecundior
turba, uel mundior
exstat in globis?
a eiuitatibus
sumus collecti
ex uastitatibus
quidam profecti.
hie mihi est lectio.
tibi refectio,
illi dilectio,
pulchramque am
plecti.
Again we have come together
In the old place,
For a little while we lighten
Our studies with amusement.
You students,
English students, chemistry students,
And debaters,
I summon from all sides.
Bring along your songs
For the long looked for (degree) day,
Let the old anthem
Be duly sung!
Unto the Nine Muses,
According to our custom,
With joyful lips
Let songs be given.
Singing is loved
Greatly by us.
We rejoice, therefore,
To sing to you.
Where does a merrier
Or more modest
Or more honourable band
Exist in the universe ?
Prom the various cities
We are collected
Out of the back-blocks
Some have come.
Here there is reading for me to do.
For you, refreshment
For him there is affection,
And pursuit of the beautiful.
59
CANTILENA CANTUARIENSIS
plurima discere
To leam many things
omnino nolo,
I by no means desire,
sed meo hiscere
But to stick to my own
ingeniolo:—
Little ideas
folleue ludere
To play with a (foot) ball,
nauemue trudere
Or to propel a boat,
Or to smite a (tennis) ball,
pilamue incudere
egomet nolo.
I personally prefer.
Diploma Day Song (1905)
60
B
Bull Froggie
Tune: “Tit-Willow.’
A little frog lay on the bank of a stream.
Croaking Proggie, Bull-Proggie, Bull-Proggie;
And he basked in the sun till his life was a dream,
Croaking Proggie, Bull-Proggie, Bull-Froggie.
Alas! little he thought that behind him did stand
The grim Georgie, who stretched out a murderous hand,
And secured with one vicious grab, frog, grass, and sand.
Croaking Froggie, Bull-Froggie, Bull-Froggie
He was brought to the lab. in a glass bottle wide,
Croaking Proggie, Bull-Proggie, Bull-Proggie;
For the girls to stick pins in the little inside
Of Bull-Proggie, Bull-Froggie, Bull-Froggie.
Soon a maid set to work, but she gave a short squeal,
As she stuck a sharp pin through each arm and each heel.
Never mind, said the Prof., he no longer can feel,
That dead Froggie. Bull-Froggie, Bull-Froggie.
Thus at last came the end of the short, happy life
Of Proggie, Bull-Froggie, Bull-Froggie,
Prom the stream to a jar, from the jar to a knif
Cutting Proggie, Bull-Froggie, Bull-Froggie.
So you now understand, if you want a 8.A.,
To have passed your exam, by the only sure way,
You can never succeed though you try night and day
Without Proggie, Bull-Proggie, Bull-Proggie.
Diploma Day Song (1905).
61
Secret Society
“Song of the Cherubim.”
Tune-. “Little Mary.”
There are seven little ladies who’ve inscribed themselves on fame, ,
The Rosy Cherubs.
And to designate their members they have given themselves the name
Of Rosy Cherubs,
They are the most bewitching pretty maidens you could see,
The most delightful specimens of demoiselles jolies,
A collection of all virtues—yes, that’s the M.R.C.,
The Rosy Cherubs.
Chorus
Mother’s Rosy Cherubs —we adore them,
We’re unanimous in admiration for them;
And if you don’t mind your eye,
You’ll be fascinated by
One of Mother’s Rosy Cherubs,
There are girls of every species, and of every size among
The Rosy Cherubs
There is one quite microscopic, while another’s very long,
Both Rosy Cherubs;
Then one is very musical, and one is sober, very,
Another’s rather quiet, while another’s rather merry,
The last one bosses all the rest for she’s the Secretary
Of the Cherubs.
Chorus
Mother’s Rosy Cherubs—we’re delighted
To observe such splendid qualities united.
When you meet one of the seven,
You imagine you’re in heaven,
With that Mother's Rosy Cherub.
Diploma Day Song (1905).
62
"The Otagiad"
A Macaronic By Pugnae Particeps.
Arma viros-que cano qui hard by the banks of the Avon,
Cujus in gelidis lymphis the schoolboys in summer do lave ’em,
Fought the grim fight with Otago, a nation bellorum peritus.
Domi so often invicti they thought they could easily beat us.
Now will I tell of their coming borne on by the monstrum horrendum
Vastos per shingly campos (for no irrigation can mend ’em
Cheering the way with old tales of the deeds of the temporis acti,
Last year’s doings down South and the man who was minus his neck-tie,
Donee longo itinere fessi they ended their journey.
Felt for their coats and their bags as faces began to discemi,
There on the station expecting the great studentium agmen,
Clamorem ad sidera tollit, and almost at once to the drag then
Rush the long waited for foemen. Turn instat equis auriga,
It clamor eoelo “aboard”, and mid shouts loud and loyal
j " ——— j Tired, hungry and thirsty, the team started off for the “Royal.”
You, O Calliope, precor, inspire me the whiles that I sing
The team from the damp foggy South the porridge-fed heroes did bring.
Much could be told of their doings, their rerum nobly gestarum,
Their prowess at tennis and linking, the fervidum eursum rotarum,
But longius dieere erat and of such I have given you satis.
I must hasten to tell of the banner, the beautiful gift of the Ladies.
63
“THE OTAGIAD”
Alter dies processit and now in the Hall of the College
Videtur a pageant ne’er seen before in that temple of knowledge.
At one o’clock entered the Captain, magna comitante eaterva;
Stant ad limina viri and listen with silence and fervour
While words of well-wishing and hope sic orsa sacerdos ah alto:
“O gravissima passi 0 team so often defeated
“This banner receive from our hands and may you be fated,
“Si Jupiter velit, to-day to turn on Dunedin the tables
“And 88’s glorious victory be told of in story and fables.”
Talia voce refert. The Captain grasping the banner
Auro ostroque rigentem began in the following manner:
“0 madam and ladies here present, footballers and fellow studentes,
“Whenever we’re fagged and oppressed cum sollicitudine mentis
The sight of that banner shall cheer us, I swear that it will and it shall ma’am,”
“Our ladies’ bright eyes sure will gain us virtutis nobilem palmam.”
Then did his men for three years, when their skip excitedly called ’em,
Answer so lusty and loud that the sound tremefecit the aulam
Now on the fierce field of strife the duae contrariae manus
Omnes with jerseys induti awaited the toss of the nummus.
Many a blue and maroon were doomed to bite mother tellurem
Soil their bright jerseys with mud and their barbara tegmina crurum.
In the grim struggle to win the third of this series of matches
For little they reeked of the falls and the blows and the bruises and scratches.
Soon the ball is kicked off and the pugna acrior crescit
Cresswell attempted a pot, but somehow or other he missed it
Volvitur Thomson excussus humi Otago’s three-quarter,
64
“ THE OTAGIAD ”
Ward will run till he’s grassed and refuses to pass as he oughter,
Torrance crushed up in the serum vix fraeto poplite gemit,
The red tide bore the blues down but yet they manage to stem it.
Nothing was scored in the spell tho’ the reds had the game all their own way,
And the blues were glad when the whistle gave signum desistere pugnae.
Rursus ad anna vocati the reds determined to beat ’em,
But in the first five minutes Cook potted a wonderful metam
Obstupere silentes. The Captain cried “All will be well yet,
Reds, if you’ll only play up.” His dictis pectora mulcet
Rush after rush the Reds made, but full back, halves, and three-quarters
Seemed an impassable wall, and the College’s beautiful daughters
Mourned the approaching defeat. Sed dextram ad sidera tollens
Quidam prayed unto Jove, “0 pater optime pollens
To thee a libation I’ll pour if I get to the goal line before us
Jove granted part but the rest dispersit inanes in auras,
Up to the full back he trot, then fell and passed to another.
He the oval transferred and quickly Craddock was over
Over the bar flew the ball like a bird per aethera pennis,
The battle was over, and res ad nihil redeunt omnes.
Otago JJniv. Review (1888)
W. F. Ward
■22
66
Gay Helvetia
Oh, we’ll sing you a song, it will not take long, Of gay Helvetia;
An idea it’ll give of the way we live
In gay Helvetia.
The land of goats and ice, you know,
Where everything’s as white as snow
And slip and slap and tumble you go
In a manner irregular.
Hurrah ! Hurrah! Hurrah !
For gay Helvetia.
To some extent no doubt ’tis true
We’re very unlike the people you
Would meet if you went to see the view
In gay Helvetia.
Hurrah ! Hurrah! Hurrah
For gay Helvetia.
These boots are not the things, I swear,
That guides upon the mountains wear—
I certainly think they cut their hair In gay Helvetia.
There is a way, so people say
In gay Helvetia,
To cut a dash and do nothing rash
In gay Helvetia,
We do the heights by telescope,
We have no faith in flimsy rope,
And that’s the way with you, I hope,
In gay Helvetia.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
For gay Helvetia.
We think it best to stay below
Where everything is comme il faut
We’re Society people don’t you know
GAY HELVETIA
In gay Helvetia.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
For gay Helvetia.
The guide-book tells us all we want,
And I’m sorry to say we really can’t
Go toiling up a glacier slant
In gay Helvetia
So that’s the way we pass the day In gay Helvetia.
We swear by Cook and his tourist book,
And the excellent Baedeckar,
We buy a paper knife or two,
And a clock that strikes with a loud cuckoo,
For these are things they sell to you
In gay Helvetia.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
For gay Helvetia.
We’re never late for table-d’-hote,
We know the menu quite by rote,
We never dine on mountain goat
In gay Helvetia.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
For gay Helvetia.
We’re very cautious mountaineers,
So you may all allay your fears—
Oh yes, we hope to live for years
In gay Helvetia.
C.U.C. Review (1897).
T. W. Cane
67
The King of the Fortunate Islands
Air: “The King of the Cannibal Islands.
Oh, have you heard the news of late
About the Southern potentate?
If you have not, it’s in my pate,
The King of the Fortunate Islands.
He dwells far off across the sea,
In a fairy land, “God’s own countree,
Where live the weka and kiwi,
And the natives are called “Ma-o-ri.’
His name 1 think you all can guess,
For his initials are “R.J.5.,”
And many a worker’s cause to bless,
The King of the Fortunate Islands.
Chorus (with haka )-
Hokitika, Muritai,
Tenakoutu, Haeremai,
Tongariro, Hataitai!
The King of the Fortunate Islands.
He started life with a miner’s pick,
And so they called him “Good old Dick,”
But to this job he didn’t stick,
The King of the Fortunate Islands.
He spoke so long, he spoke so loud,
Whenever he could find a crowd,
The West Coast folks of him grew proud,
Their M.H.R. they him avowed.
And now a man has but to boast
His home is on the wet West Coast
For him King Richard finds a post;
The King of the Fortunate Islands
68
69
THE KING OF THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS
And so to Wellington he went,
And entered into Parliament;
He had a feeling he was meant
For the King of the Fortunate Islands.
While there he showed such lots of vim,
He throve on “Force” like Sunny Jim,
With lusty lung and sturdy limb,
He made the people hear of him,
And when his leader passed away
He took his chair without delay!
“I’m Premier now. Hip, hip, hooray!”
Said the King of the Fortunate Islands.
When he ascended to the Throne,
He brought in a policy all his own,
And of contention it was a bone
For the King of the Fortunate Islands,
He put the people on the land,
He took the toilers by the hand,
And labour so knit in a band
That sweating came to a still stand.
Said other lands; “He can’t succeed.
On that we’re all of us agreed!”
But by-and-bye they followed the lead,
Of the King of the Fortunate Islands.
Now when the slim and wily Boer
With good old England went to war,
King Richard then was to the fore.
The King of the Fortunate Islands.
From bush and bracken, hill and glen,
He quick equipped contingents ten,
New Zealand’s best and bravest men,
And patriot-like addressed them then.
“Come, rally round the Motherland,
And up with the Union Jack so grand,
And under it we’ll take our stand!”
Said the King of the Fortunate Islands.
70
THE KING OF THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS
A country called Austra-li-a
Determined to federate one day,
And bring beneath the gum-tree’s sway
The King of the Fortunate Islands.
“The hand I hold is good enough
To go alone,” said Richard gruff,
“The cards I have are the proper stuff
Three Kings on top, and then—the Bluff.
For White Australia I’ve regard,
But I don’t want to play in your backyard!”
And all New Zealand then hurrahed
For the King of the Fortunate Islands.
When Edward Rex was to be crowned,
He sent the invitations round.
And in the front row there was found
The King of the Fortunate Islands.
But on that most eventful date,
King Edward was delayed by fate,
And, as he paced the nave in state,
A cry arose: “You are too late!”
He soon fell swooning upon the ground.
For, as he cast his eye around.
He found instead of him they’d crowned
The King of the Fortunate Islands.
One day a cable from afar:
“The Russians have chosen you for their Czar,”
“The time has come at last, Ha! ha!”
Said the King of the Fortunate Islands,
“For here I’ve reigned so long you know,
And had so hard a row to hoe,
It’s time another had a show,
And so I’ll give the reins to Joe.
I’ll pack my Gladstone and off I’ll go,
For soon I’ll have the whole world know,
That what I say it shall be so!”
Said the King of the Fortunate Islands.
H. F. von Haast (1903)
Registrar Joynt
Air: “Father O’Flynn.’
Who is beloved by the whole University?
Who of ripe scholarship has not a scarcity?
Students exclaim without any diversity,
“That is our popular Registrar Joynt.”
Soon he is leaving and crossing the sea, ’Varsity Agent in London to be,
Hence this farewelling, our sorrow we’re quelling,
The praises we’re swelling of Registrar Joynt
Chorus —
Here’s a health to our Registrar Joynt,
For to his record with pride he can point
Patron aesthetic, and man energetic, and friend sympathetic,
J. W. Joynt.
When careless students forget to matriculate,
Rush to the office and rage and gesticulate,
Who is allaying their anger articulate?
That is the job of our Registrar Joynt.
When cables from Home give weak students a start,
Whom do you find in his goodness of heart
Soothing the failing ones, cheering the wailing ones, coaxing
the railing ones?
Registrar Joynt
Who performs tasks of the greatest variety
Freeing the Senate from any anxiety,
Statutes interprets in case of dubiety?
That is our versatile Registrar Joynt.
He signs the card that brings failure or fame,
Cheques for the scholars subscribes with his name;
Thing's academical, legal or chemical, Sessions polemical
Manages Joynt
71
72
REGISTRAR JOY NT
He to encourage our speech oratorical,
Argument lucid and words metaphorical,
Gave for debating that shield, now historical,
Treasured as trophy of Registrar Joynt.
Though he is going so far from us all,
Yearly his mem’ry that shield will recall,
Friend of the tournament, umpire and ornament, soon we’ll
forlorn lament
Registrar Joynt
What shall we do on the next yearly capping day,
When we assemble, that singing and clapping day,
And speakers and students indulge in a “scrapping” day,
Minus the pi-esence of Registrar Joynt?
Then all in vain will the populace wish
To see on the menu our long-standing dish,
Undergrads, roasting him, Senators boasting him, Graduates
toasting him
Succulent Joynt
Soon he’ll be back by the lakes of Killamey,
And giving the Colleens a taste of his blarney,
With Kathleen Mavoumeen and pretty Kate Kearney
One on each side of bould Registrar Joynt.
When he gets tired of code words and marks,
Back to his green little island he harks,
Boycotting daily, and dancing jigs gaily, and twirling
shillelagh
J. W. Joynt.
Now let him see what you think of his quality,
Give him a taste of your fun and frivolity,
Shout out that chorus of jovial jollity,
“Jolly good fellow” is Registrar Joynt.
When he embarks on his new Scholar-ship,
We’ll grasp his hand in a long parting grip,
Eyes strangely wetting, and always regretting, but never forgetting
Our Registrar Joynt.
H. P. von Boost.
Of Lispeth at College
Lispeth goes to College now,
She has put her hair up lately
Little wrinkles crease her brow;
Long skirts make her walk sedately
Yet I do not find her greatly
Altered, ’spite that learned frown—
(Nor attired less delicately)—
Now that Lispeth wears a gown
Where’s the prof, would dare to plough
Lispeth, though her pen innately
Writes sweet things no books allow—
Though she cribs immoderately?
Sage professors, grim and stately,
With indulgence smiling down,
Add her marks inaccurately
Now that Lispeth wears a gown.
Mere men-students labour how
To appear most up-to-dately
Catch her eye to win a bow,
Wear their clothes immaculately;
AII their hats are put on straightly,
All their ties are new from town-
They dread living celibately
Now that Lispeth wears a gown.
73
OF LISPETH AT COLLEGE
So they burn Apollo’s bough,
Wear the willow desolately,
Wander in Despond his Slough,
Sit and swot disconsolately;
Or, constructing inchoately
\ erses blue in studies brown,
Write ballades, thus, second-rately
Now that Lispeth wears a gown
Envoy:
Lispeth!—Most unfortunately
Lightest laughs my pleadings drown;
So I sue importunately
Now that Lispeth wears a gown.
C.U.C. Review (1905)
74
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Canterbury College
Ye distant Halls, all roofed in slate
(Or corrugated iron),
Where I, a would-be Graduate
Your benches used to sigh on
Ye chimneys, belching learned smoke,
What time instructively they stoke
The furnace fires that roar and rage
Ye Labs., where once I frogs dissected.
Or, wooing Chemistry, inspected
Her demonstrative Page.
Ah, happy halls! and chiefly thou
O Club, particularly dear!
(But not thy tariff; I allow
Thy dues were, after all, most fair)
I see once more that verdant cloth,
Where, spite of holes drilled by the moth
I piled up breaks of two each night
My weary soul it seemed to soothe,
As, rolling o’er the baize so smooth
I pocketed the white.
Say, Father Amos, thou hast seen
(But no man else, I’m sure!
Of the Cottage by yon margent green
The chaste interior.
What lovely forms now ’neath the tree
Or grouped in circles think of tea,
Or con their notes for next hour’s lecture
That Cottage, ah, it stirs a chord!
On memory’s tablet’s deeply scored
Its subtle architecture.
32
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT
Gay hopes were ours, when, sharp at ten,
We rose so blythe and gladsome;
And if we had no money then,
Some kind pawnbroker had some.
Who foremost now delights to join
The throng that sheds superfluous coin
In Broadway’s large and gilded hall?
Who football practices now shuns,
And, cursing all games where one runs,
Damns every kind of ball ?
Some still, no doubt, on passing bent,
Resolv’d to work, not trifle,
At lectures try, with zeal well-meant,
Soul-sickening yawns to stifle.
Some still the crib, I understand,
Manipulate with dext’rous hand,
Beneath the professorial eye.
Still as they read, they wish they’d spared
Their nerves with the usual; “Not prepared”
Yet snatch a fearful joy.
Poor dears! I fear they do not re alise the situation;
A sad awakening theirs may be
At the Pass Examination
What dangers lie in slighted book-work,
What perils in each hasty look lurk,
As brain-benumbed they scan each question!
To trust to luck, and “the night before,’’
And native wit, they now feel sure
Was an ill-advised suggestion.
Lo, when Results are cabled out,
A pretty how-d’ye-do!
Three anxious months of horrid doubt
And then, perhaps, not through!
33
C
77
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT
One with reproaches will lament
Because he missed by two per cent.
Another swears there’s been a blunder;
Forced Apathy you’ll also see,
And far-fetch’d Jocularity,
And simulated Wonder
And if they pass—alack, ah me!
(Tis sad work being a poet!)
They’ve still to earn their livings. See
The rotten ways they’ll do it
For some in Business may smear
The nice clean souls they brought from here
Or Politics, so foul and boggy
And others barter youth and ease
(A “grisly spectre” waits for these!)
To ill-paid Pedagogy.
C.U.C. Review (1914).
T. W. Cane
When Knights Were Bold
The trench I’m sitting in is beastly wet—
I’ll get pneumonia, I should like to bet—
We’re going over shortly, so I’m t01d....
And there’s a war on, and my feet are cold
My thoughts fly back to days of long ago,
When gallant knights fared forth to find the foe
They did things with less effort, so ’tis said;
I wish I had been living then, instead.
They didn’t wade through tons and tons of mud,
Whenever they desired a foeman’s blood;
Not much; they scrapped about in nice dry lists,
Or fought at fifty yards with doubled fists.
They didn’t scrap with shells and bombs and tanks,
Nor did they hop the bags in serried ranks;
They didn’t rise and grouse at 2 a.m.
Nor get an acting rank, unpaid, “pro tem.”
In short, these bold, heroic knights of yore
Would find this present stunt an awful bore,
The same as we do; but, without a doubt,
They’d have kept on till Fritz was counted out.
And we’ve one hig advantage, after all,
To give at least a drop of comfort small....
Not one of those past heroes, I believe,
Got first a Blighty, then- —a fortnight’s leave.
C.U.C. Review (1918).
78
A Moral Poem About Lost Antiquities
(This “Moral Poem of Lost Antiquities’’ came to us unaccompanied by any note or explanation. It was written in a very shaky hand, on very crumpled paper, blotched and blistered with what may—or may not—have been tears. After taking due thought we were unable to tell whether it was prose or verse and so print it in a form which enables one to take his choice.—Ed. “C.U.C. Review.’’)
It is the universal experience in this world of troubles darl
That popular admiration generally fails to hit the mark.
Thus, the raucous charlatan A. is acclaimed with fulsome adulation,
Whilst inconspicuous B. was of far greater service to the nation.
Cadmus, a most misguided man, undue renown doth get
Because that he, with misplaced zeal, invented the alphabet
Much greater praise should Cadmus win, that nobly he forbore,
After concocting sixteen letters, from doing any more.
Then unto Palmades moderation was unknown
His passion for writing letters plagued not editors alone;
The Gods’ good gift to Greece, restraint, by him was badly missed—
The cow made a lot of aspirates, and added them to the list.
Rather than sing of these, my pen shall praise a humbler man
Who did his little bit to further Evolution’s plan,—
Praise him, all ye who ever studied Greek or Latin grammar,
That unassuming, unknown scribe who managed to drop Gamma
There have been merry Irish wakes, and tangis running beer,
And I suppose when Nero died not many shed a tear
But of all the happy funerals, the one that takes first place
Must surely have been the obsequies at the death of th Locative Case.
79
A MORAL POEM ABOUT LOST ANTIQUITIES
I don’t go much on Cicero. A man should draw the line
At him and Plant and Seneca, and such pretentious swine.
They’ve lost some scraps of Virgil. I wish they’d lose the lot.
My favourite books of Livy are the ones we haven’t got.
Fair fall the Alexandrians, and their frisky little ways!
Here’s to their great destructor, and the stuff that fed the blaze.
Of making books there is no end; study’s a weariness.
My blessing on the people who make books and study—less.
Talking about the Canon: I am not convulsed with woe
Because the Book of the Wars of the Lord is gone; why, let it go!
I sigh for no fifth Gospel, nor for logia gone astray.
From Genesis to Revelation’s plenty, any day.
Yes, considering how much worse, in various ways, might be our lot,
Had Fate increased the things we have by the things which we have not,
We cannot be too thankful that in ancient historee
There were one or two stray citizens who displayed philanthropee.
C.U.C. Review.
80
To a Young Lady just entering the University
Be good, sweet child; don’t try to be attractive.
Go soher-elad, not peacock-like arrayed.
And so grow wise, plain, and remain for ever
A nice. .old. .maid.
Olla Podrida (1919)
Two Miniatures
Engineering potentate, bulging in the waist-coat
Clumping down the corridors with firm, proud tread,
With a glare for his lecturers,
Morrison, Bamford,
Filling all his greasers with stark, chill, dread.
Little under-graduate, fresh from the High School,
Looking very funny in a brand new gown,
With an armful of text-books.
Note-books, pencils,
Feeling very conscious her hair’s still down
Olla Podrida (1919)
81
The Rhyme of the Rector who might have been, is not, and won’t be.
The Board thought of getting a man
As rector (an excellent plan)
To buck up the College, and ladle out knowledge
And so their advertisement ran:—
‘We want an illustrious
Very industrious
Rector for C.U.C.”
They wondered what wages they’d say,
And decided, for once in a way,
To fix on a figure a little bit bigger
Than they were accustomed to pay
For this very desirable
Mayhe acquirable
Rector of C.U.C.
But now the Professors grew hot,
And reckoned the wages they got
Should be in proportion, and took the precaution
Of telling the Board they would not
Take less than a noodle-ish
Quite over-boodle-ish
Rector of C.U.C.
So the Board abandoned the scheme,
Knuckled down to its mutinous team
Of angry Professors, but we (God bless us!)
Are robbed of our exquisite dream
82
THE RHYME OF THE RECTOR
Of a perfectly beautiful
Noble and dutiful
"Wholly omniscient
Very efficient
Nice and delectable
Fairly respectable
Gentle and lenient
Rather convenient
Handsome, athletical
Saintly, poetical.
Quite hypothetical
Rector of C.U.C.
J. 11. E. Schroder
83
Song of the Dissolute Young Man
(Expressly written for the good of your souls, the arresting of back sliders, and the furtherance of the Millenium.)
When I came to College I made up my mind
(I hope yon are following me?)
To put in a year of the usefullest kind;
(I hope you are following me)
To absorb all the facts I could possibly get,
Attend all the lectures and keep out of debt,
Above all, to avoid the frivolous set
I hope you are following me)
But I hadn’t been here much more than a week
I hope you are following m
When I found that such virtue was purely a freal
(I hope you are following me)
And now I’m a reckless and idle young man,
I bunk Arnold Wall and I scorn Henry Dan
And I’m going to the devil as fast as I can
(I hope you are following me?)
J. 11. E. Schroder
84
Ode to a Certain Professor
I’m in the Dickens of a seot,
Professor, you have raised my wrath!
I’ll show that I for one can not
Be called a Goth
I kept a journal when a lad
In which this entry still remains:—
“Your comedies are not so bad
Aristophanes
Though loving Shakespeare, I confess
I thought his work was trash beside
Horace’s passionate address
To Lyde.
And often by the sad sea wave
(Meanwhile devouring whelks and cockles)
I’d read the glorious deeds of brave
Old Themistocles.
I’d better stop, because you know
Politeness before anger fades,
I might be rude and bid you go
To Hades.
C.U.C. Review.
85
Nursery Rhymes
(Thoroughly revised, and suitable for an age of science.)
A little Zygnema
Sat up on her beam-a.
All on a bright summer’s day
A rude young Navicula
Started to ticula,
And seared Miss Zygnema away.
The amoeba and the scientist
Walked pseudopod in hand,
They smiled like anything because
Their clothes were very grand,
‘ 1 Though times are hard, ’ ’ the amoeba said
‘We still can buy such things
As shirts and hens and shaving soap.
And cheese and wedding rings.”
The doctor had a diatom,
Its shell was made of flint,
A ton of bricks fell on its back,
And made a norful dint
C.U.C. Review
86
Lines to the Drama Society
It’s several years now since a few of ns,
Interested in contemporary drama,
Would sometimes be so hold as to discuss
Producing something; but in moments calmer,
Our courage dwindled. Now the thing we planned
(And would have failed in, if we had begun it)-
Young wearers of the buskin, noble band,
You’ve gone and done it!
At best we hoped to stage a single play
Hobbling in unimaginative strictures,
We never dreamed of heights achieved to-day
Of lectures, helped by magic lantern pictures,
Of meetings every other Wednesday night,
Of papers, readings, regular discussions
Of Brieux, Strindberg, Ibsen, and the quite
Delightful Russians.
So we, whose weakling scheme was bom to die,
Watch with a hope that almost grows ecstatic
Watch with a friendly—nay, avuncular eye
The doings of the C.U.C. Dramatic
Who knows what shining glory lies in front ?
Perhaps ’twill even he of such importanc
As wins a headline, through some startling stunt
In Johnny Norton’s.
“Candida” ’s promised: may we hope to see
(Of course we deprecate excessive hurry)
Greek tragic art—say the “Antigone,”
As Englished by Professor Gilbert Murray?
Have glimpses that will make us less forlorn
Of Schnitzler’s things and those of Granville Barker
Or something—why not Hauptmann’s “Ere the Dawn”— A little darker?
87
LINES TO THE DRAMA SOCIETY
Galsworthy, too: “ The Silver Box,” and “Strife,”
And “Joy” are rather nice—we wait them itchily
And Strindberg’s “Julia,” or “The Country Wife,’
A rather funny thing by William Wycherly;
And Synge’s queer “Playboy of the Western World,
(It’s full of all the quaintest Irish swearing),
Is a bomb that’s simply pleading to be hurled
By r College daring.
And may we yet see College life refined,
Cleansed by the spirit of the modern drama?
See Rolleston turn to pleasures of the mind,
And Connon Hall grow wiser, gentler, calmer
See Wilde and Yeats in every flapper’s hand
Tchekov engross the penitent Corellian,
And undergrads, look eager, tense, and grand
A trifle Shelleyan ?
J. H. E. Schroder.
88
"Intrant Animalia..."
Etsi minime me fallit, lector benevole, sapientes nostros solere in atrium intrare praeposteros, poeticae tamen inversioni ignoscas velim; non quo Apollini me dicatum existimem, quippe cuius pedestris, sicut Flacci, humi serpat oratio. et si quid aliud forte reprenderis, detur, obsecro, petenti venia. vale.
It primum ante alios, magna eomitante caterua,
purpuream indutus uestem titulosque superbos,
ipse pater rectorque domus; non ille ferarum
uiscera rimari refugit nee findere ranas.
heu! tantam potuit doctrina afferre malorum!
insequitur uictor bellis insignis, et olim
Germanis elarus spoliis; nunc Marte Latinos
eonstemat iuuenes uerbosaque fulmina torquet
dein uideas Hebetem fallentem nomine circum;
montiuagum et Murum, collectis laetum amaranthis.
Nec non Celsus adest, librorum pastus aceruis,
et Sapiens noster, cui maxima cura deorum,
incedit Stygios imitatus Caluus odores
pugnantesque crepans atomos. uestigia cuius
Concha premit, nulla, ut perhibent, non callidus arte.
Herculeos referens—o dique deaeque—labores!
elarus ab Heetoreis sequeris, Longinque, tropaeis,
laudibus et multi sublatus ad aethera amici
proximus ille Alpes lustrat camposque iaeentes,
cui data templorum et ueterum custodia rerum
ultimus, at minime minimus, nuperque reeeptus
dinorum in coetum, graditur non passibus aequis,
qui dominos operasque docet socialia iura,
dum studet —heu frustra —tristes componere lites.
unus abest, doctus numeris, patriamque reuisens
otia discipulis peperit gratamque quietem.
H. D. Broadhead.
89
Iste Professor
An Experiment in the Sapphic Metre.
Wordy Professor, whither art thou tending?
"Where, in the name of angels and of devils,
"Where, in the name of the palaces infernal—
Where art thou tending?
Why dost thou ever, spouting like a kettle
Praising the things which thy predecessors praised,
Carefully repressing all originality,
Talk through thy headgear?
Tell me, Professor, dost thou think thou helpest
Those who are placed beneath thy care paternal,
Either to knowledge, or to get a 8.A.,
They meanwhile groaning?
Thou hast omitted the things which were thine to say,
And thou hast said the things thou should’st not have said
Filling our time and our brains and our notes with
Meaningless details.
Now, then, away with thee, voluminous Professor,
I have enough of thy facts and thy chronology;
I have enough of thy slow, solid movement,
Plodding and powerfuli;
I tire of hearing thee defend the indefensible,
Just because antiquated dons have defended it;
I have a lot of it at home on my book-shelves—
Get thee to blazes!
90
"Ode to Infinity"
My heart sinks, and a weary languor seems
To numb me, Sammy-Steele-wards slinking slow
To reckon out the strains in divers shafts
(Given the load P) —if they stand or fall.
’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot
(Nor yet that I object to Sammy’s lore)
That, 0 ye “ Art”-ful ones of Canty. Coll.,
In some nook-shotten spot
Where Percy is not, nor stage 3 exists,
Ye sing of toil—nor wot ye what toil means,
Infinity! Oh, how I shy at thee
(Forced by hard fate to study thee most days
And devious are the ways that lead to thee!
Mine the dull brain that cannot love thy ways.
I’m always with thee! If I do my trig,
Or else try working out hydraulic sums
I still bump up against infinity
(And still I find no light)
Save what mayhap old Pendlebury sheds
In darkling rays on our devoted heads.
Oh, for a look at papers (not yet set),
Bom long ago of some Professor’s brain,
Smacking of musty tomes, examples weird
(E’en snails that climb up poles for evermore)—
For just one look at them, and having looked
Quick should I slip away as any cat,
And quick swot up the questions printed there
(Lest I forget)
And write full swift, and leave the hall in glee—
And escort beauteous damosels to tea
91
D
“ ODE TO INFINITY ”
Rankling, I listen, and full many a time
I am at sea to all that Percy saith;
Call him sweet names in many a muttered rhyme
For talking in the air, beneath my breath,
I don’t care now when my time comes to die,
For I shall then be at infinity,
And know its secrets (till now hid from me),
If it be “plus” or “minus”—
Still he’ll talk on, and others hear with pain
What happens to good parallels when they die
Thou wast not meant for mirth, Infinity!
(Thou bourne of all good parallels—bad ones, too—)
The examples set this blessed night were set
Years since, and angry students took them down.
Mayhap the self-same sum was one-time set
To Prof. Gabbatt, who chuckled (wily man!)
To think how simple was infinitude,
The same that oft since then
Puzzled the “Pass” man, as he chews his pen.
And asks with feeling—why he e’er was bom?
Was bom! That seems most strange, Infinity!
No souls in thy dim, mystic clime are born
The ghosts of parallels lost inhabit thee
Lost, for they met too soon), binomials tom,
Crushed by converging series that advance.
Adieu! Adieu! I see them die away,
The Gamma-functions meet them, wildly leap,
The Fourier series prance,
They fiercely fight, the noise rolls from their fray
And wakes me- —Great Math! have I been asleep?
92
The Song of the Sport
After Walt Whitman.
Who am I?
Who am I, you ask, the great, immaculate, infallible capital I? I am me.
I am the sport,
I am not such a one as takes life seriously
I do not go to the earnest piety of the C.U.,
Nor to the Dialec., except perhaps to criticise.
Nor to the irritating monologue of professors, if I can avoid it,
Nor to the sane, everyday amusements of sensible people.
I don’t think.
Rather,
To loaf,
To be a nut, and yet more than a nut
To know a thing or two,
To feel superior to the average run of people.
To put myself among the girls,
To use theological terms apart from their exact doctrinal
significance,
Above all, to play football.
Football.
The bovine mutton-headedness of it
The energy, the courage, the force,
The rush of the forwards and the quivering masculinity of the scrum,
The dashing policy of the backs,
The exclamations of the crowd,
Admonitions, objurgations, interjections,
The continuous roar of the barrackers.
The sounding kick of the ball
A sound of the tearing of linen,
93
THE SONG OF THE SPORT
The sudden sitting down of the kicker,
The referee’s whistle, the silent gathering round of the
players, the impossibility of the situation.
The final production of another pair.
This is the sum of life,
This is to live, to he a sport!
Why do I do it?
Everybody’s doing it,
Doing it
See that ragtime couple over there.
They do not think. Why should they?
They have a higher opinion of themselves than of any thinkers,
Plato, Aristotle, or Sir Robert Stout
They are above that.
They are sufficient unto themselves.
The world has nothing to offer them.
That is my ideal.
Not to be enthusiastic.
To go to the theatre, bnt in a critical mood.
To go to the football match—and what follows after.
To dress,
To walk the streets,
To have a drink.
To indulge in a mild flirtation.
This is my convention
Not to dare to be different from the others,
To compliment myself on my dashingness and my wickedness,
To feel lam a devil of a fellow,
To be a sport.
Not ’alf.
C.V.C. Review (1913
94
Tea at College
At College Tea you will not find
Old mellow wines, or silver shining.
That novel-writers bring to mind
When profiteers or peers are dining.
Yet here is mellower content
Than Burgundy or Port diffuses,
And homely ware of Stoke-on-Trent
That wise economy excuses.
Yet what wild cabaret can boast
Of such delightful tea and toast?
But choicest feast of all, to lie
With sense of genial elation.
In comatose satiety
From tea’s benign intoxication
(The fat, phlegmatic cocoa-bean
Could not aspire to leave a man in
A state so tranquilly serene
As does this blend of leaf and tannir
Fitting reward for him who dares
Interminable flights of stairs)
And thus reclined, to see begun
The fruitless search, (but still persistent)
For currants in the currant-bun.
Though time has proved them non-existent;
To watch the pot-plant’s verdure flee
Through over-frequent irrigation
With surplus saueerfuls of tea
By way of gentle stimulation
(A policy that few expound
As horticultural!/ sound.)
52
TEA AT COLLEGE
When gorged with mustier repast
(And less refreshing to the diner)
With Greek declensions or the last
Two-hundred dynasties of China;
Or if to literature inclined,
With plays of D’Avenant or Dekker,
This tea-room seems to my tired mind
A sort of gastronomic Mecca,
To which, like turbanned Moslem sage.
I thankfully make pilgrimage.
1923
W. E. Thomson
53
PART II
The Passing of the Forest
All cannot fade that glorifies the hills;
Their strength remains, their aspect of command,
Their flush of colour when calm evening stills
Day’s clamour, and the sea-breeze cools the land.
With shout of thunder and with voice of rills,
Ancient of days in green old age they stand,
In grandeur that can never know decay,
Though from their flanks men strip the woods away.
But thin their vesture now—the restless grass,
Bending and dancing as the breeze goes by,
Catching quick gleams and cloudy shades that pass.
As shallow seas reflect a wind-stirred sky
Ah! nobler far their forest raiment was,
From crown to feet that clothed them royally.
Shielding their mysteries from the glare of day,
Ere the dark woods were reft and tom away
Well may these plundered and insulted kings,
Stripped of their robes, despoiled, uncloaked, discrowned
Draw down the clouds with white enfolding wings
And soft aerial fleece to wrap them round,
To hide the scars that every season brings,
The fire’s black smirch, the landslip’s gaping wound
Well may they shroud their heads in mantle gray,
Since from their brows the leaves were plucked away!
Gone is the forest world, its wealth of life,
Its jostling, crowding, thrusting, struggling race,
Creeper with creeper, bush with bush at strife,
Warring and wrestling for a breathing space;
100
101
THE PASSING OF THE FOREST
Below, a realm with tangled rankness rife,
Aloft, tree columns, shafts of stateliest grace
Gone is the forest nation. None might stay;
Giant and dwarf alike have passed away.
Gone are the forest birds, arboreal things,
Eaters of honey, honey-sweet of song,
The tui, and the bell-bird —he who sings
That brief rich music we would fain prolong.
Gone the wood-pigeon’s sudden whirr of wings
The daring robin, all unused to wrong.
Wild, harmless, hamadryad creatures, they
Lived with their trees, and died, and passed away
And with the birds, the flowers, too, are gone,
That bloomed aloft, ethereal, stars of light
The clematis, the kowhai like ripe com,
Russet, though all the hills in green were dight;
The rata, draining from its tree forlorn
Rich life-blood for its crimson blossoms bright,
Red glory of the gorges,—well a-day!
Fled is that splendour, dead and passed away.
Gone are the forest tracks, where oft we rode
Under the silver fern-fronds climbing slow.
In cool, green tunnels, though fierce noontide glowed
And glittered on the tree-tops far below.
There, ’mid the stillness of the mountain road.
We just could hear the valley river flow,
Whose voice through many a windless summer day
Haunted the silent woods, now passed away.
Drinking fresh odours, spicy wafts that blew,
We watched the glassy, quivering air asleep,
Midway between tail cliffs that taller grew
Above the unseen torrent calling deep;
THE PASSING OF THE FOREST
Till, like a sword, cleaving the foliage through,
The waterfall flashed foaming down the steep;
White, living water, cooling with its spray
Dense plumes of fragile fern, now scorched away.
Keen is the axe, the rushing fire streams bright;
Clear, beautiful, and fierce it speeds for Man,
The Master, set to change and stem to smite,
Bronzed pioneer of nations. Ay, but scan
The ruined beauty wasted in a night,
The blackened wonder God alone could plan,
And builds not twice! A bitter price to pay
Is this for progress—beauty swept away.
William Pemher Reeves
102
The Lawyer's Bride
Or, The Suit op William Styles (“Bill” —for short), Being the pleadings of a young legal practitioner to the fair
Phyllis.
Air: “Wait for the Waggon.”
Will you come with me, my Phyllis dear, and be a lawyer’s bride?
Drawn up is my conveyance, so to the church let’s ride
Oh, don’t reserve your judgment, but say you’ll marry me,
And do not let your answer be merely C.A.V
Refrain:
List to me, Phyllis, grant my petition,
Come with me, Phyllis dear, and be a lawyer’s brid
The best man, Thomas Smiles, is a fellow that you kno
And I shall have as groomsmen, John Doe and Eichard Eoe
Away you shall be given, if discover him we can
By the bonus pater familias or the average prudent man
The jovial six carpenters shall build our house, I trow
And never fear a suit for trespass ah initio.
Our goods the common carrier shall bring from divers places,
And wedding presents many, packed in Smith’s Leading Cases
If you lack occupation, in my office you shall work,
You’ll find it most engrossing, so the task you needn’t shirk
And when you’re feeling thirsty, we’ll both go to the bar.
And there we’ll take refreshers, that so customary are
Be tenant of my heart for life, Oh maiden fair and chaste,
And let my arm encircle your voluntary waste
Don’t let me be nonsuited, but listen, pray, to reasoi
Oh, grant to me your hand in fee and let me have the seisin
103
THE LAWYER’S BRIDE
I ask for an attachment, distress is all I get—
Sweet, enter satisfaction of Cupid’s judgment debt
You’ll drive me p’raps to murder, if you won’t be my wife,
And then an execution will terminate my life.
Your Bill you won’t dishonour, accept him, do, at sight
“Protest for non-acceptance” must never be my plight
But to your sweet indorsement, Oh, let me have recourse,
And let me take delivery as holder in due course.
Upon my skill in pleading you’ll surely cast no slur.
Then to my Declaration why do you thus demur?
In Cupid’s Court, my darling, be quick and prove your Will,
And none with infidelity shall ever tax your Bill
Allowing my appeal, you blushing answer “Yes,”
And now I’m plainly guilty of embracery, I guess,
But, as you know “Volenti injuria non fit,”
You waive my tort, my Darling, when my kisses you permit.
H. F. van Haast
104
105
Two Pictures
Within:—a fire, neglected, dying fast;
An untouched meal upon the table spread;
A candle, flickering as each stormy blast
Howls by; an infant in its little bed
Asleep; a pair of slippers by the fire;
A woman, kneeling by the infant’s cot
In anguish breathing out her heart’s desire
With white drawn lips, for hope she feels is not.
Without: —the first few faint gray streaks of day
The waning moon by cloud-rack drifting past
Half hid; white billows yearning for their prey,
Churned into seething foam by every blast
That shrieks and howls and leaps from sea to land
A sea-mew wheeling round with mournful cry
A shattered boat half-buried in the sand
A white, dead face turned to the cruel sky
T. W. Rowe.
Saturday Night
Saturday Night in the crowded town;
Pleasure and pain going up and down.
Murmuring low on the ear there beat
Echoes unceasing of voice and feet
Withered age with its load of care,
Come in this tumult of life to share,
Childhood glad in its radiance brief,
Happiest-hearted or bowed with grief,
Meet alike, as the stars look down
Week by week on the crowded town.
And in a kingdom of mystery,
Rapt from this weariful world to see
Magic sights in the yellow glare,
Breathing delight in the gas-lit air,
Careless of sorrow, of grief, or pain,
Two by two, again and again,
Strephon and Chloe together move,
Walking in Arcady, land of love!
What are the meanings that burden all
These murmuring voices that rise and fall?
Tragedies whispered of, secrets told,
Over the baskets of bought and sold;
Joyous speech of the lately wed;
Broken lamentings that name the dead
Endless runes of the gossip’s rede;
And, gathered home with the weekly need,
Kindly greetings, as neighbours meet
There in the stir of the busy street
106
SATURDAY NIGHT
Then is the glare of the gaslight ray
Gifted with potency strange to-day
Records of time-written history
Plash into sight as each face goes by.
There as the hundreds slow-moving go,
Each with his burden of joy or woe,
Souls, in the meeting of strangers’ eyes
Startled this kinship to recognise,
Meet and part, as the stars look down
Week by week on the crowded town
And still, in the midst of the busy hum,
Rapt in their dream of delight, they come
Heedless of sorrow, of grief, or care,
Wandering on in enchanted air,
Far from the haunting shadow of pain;
Two by two, again and again.
Strephon and Chloe together move,
Walking in Arcady, land of love
Mary Colbome-Veel.
64
The Grey Company
0 the grey, grey company,
Of the pallid dawn!
0 the ghostly faces
Ashen-like and drawn!
The Lord’s lone sentinels
Dotted down the years—
The little grey company
Before the pioneers!
Dreaming of Utopias
Ere the time was ripe,
They awoke to scorning,
To jeering and to strife
Dreaming of millenniums
In a world of wars,
They awoke to shudder
At a flaming Mars.
Never was a Luther
But a Huss was first, —
A fountain unregarded
In the primal thirst.
Never was a Newton
Crowned and honoured well,
But first a lone Galileo
Wasted in a cell.
In each other’s faces
Looked the pioneers;—
Drank the wine of courage
All their battle years.
108
E
K
THE GREY COMPANY
For their weary sowing
Through the world wide
Green they saw the harvest
Ere the day they died
But the grey grey company
Stood every man alone
In the chilly dawnlight
Scarcely had they known
Ere the day they perished
That their beacon star
Was not glint of marshlight
In the shadows far.
The brave white witnesses
To the truth within
Took the dart of folly,
Took the jeer of sin.
Crying “Follow, follow
Back to Eden gate!
They trod the Polar desert,
Met a desert fate
Be laurel to the victor,
And roses to the fair,
And asphodel Elysian
Let the hero wear
But lay the maiden lilies
Upon their narrow biers,
The lone grey company
Before the pioneers!
Jessie Mackay
109
Spring Fires
The running rings of fire on the Canterbury hills,-
Running, ringing, dying at the border of the snow
Mad, young, seeking as a young thing wills,
The ever, ever living, ever buried Long Ago!
The soft running fire on the Canterbury hills,
Swinging low the censer of a tender heathenesse
To the dim Earth goddesses that quicken all the thrills
When the heart’s wine of August is dripping from the press!
The quiet bloom of haze on the Canterbury hills!
The fire, it is the moth that is winging to the snow
0 pure red moth, but the sweet white kills!
And we thrill again to watch you, but we know, but we know!
The long yellow spurs on the Canterbury hills
To a moon of maiden promise wake once in all the year,
When the fires come again, and the little tui trills,
And who will name or think on a January sere?
The lone large flower of the Canterbury hills
On the slender ti-tree will hang her honeyed head,
When the moon of fire has called her to the spurs and the rills.
Dim and strong and typical of tintless river-bed.
The scent of burning tussock on the Canterbury hills!
The richness and the mystery that wakens like a lyr«
With the dearness of a dreaming that never yet fulfils !—-
And we know it, and we know it, but we love the moon of fire!
Jessie Mackay.
110
Slumber Song
Neither to fight nor plead, my dear!
Home to the low long nest
On the holy sod of the plains of God!
And it’s only to rest, to rest!
Neither to sift nor weigh, my dear!
Neither to sow nor reap!
For the balance is true and the sickle is through,
And it’s only to sleep, to sleep!
Neither to will nor plan, my dear!
Neither to smile nor sigh;
For home is the fruit to the altar-foot,
And it’s only to die, to die!
Jessie Machay
111
Onawe
Peaceful it is: the long light glows and glistens
On English grass;
Sweet are the sounds upon the ear that listens; —
The winds that pass
Rustle the tussock, and the birds are calling
The sea below
Murmurs, upon its beaches rising, falling,
Soft, soft, and slow. —
All undisturbed the Pakeha’s herds are creeping
Along the hill;
On lazy tides the Pakeha’s sails are sleeping,
And all is still.
Here once the mighty Atua had his dwelling
In mystery,
And hence weird sounds were heard at midnight swelling
Across the sea.
Here once the Haka sounded; and din of battle
Shook the grey crags;
Triumphant shout, and agonized death-rattle
Startled the shags.
And now such peace upon this isthmus narrow,
With Maori blood
Once red! —these heaps of stones, —a greenstone arrow
Rough-hewn and rude!
112
ON A WE
Gone is the Atua, and the hillsides lonely,
The warriors dead;
No sight, no sound! the weird wild wailing only
Of gull instead
Come not the llangatira hither roaming
As once of yore,
To dance a ghostly Haka in the gloaming
And feast once more?
Tena koe Pakeha! within this fortification
Grows English grass—
Tena koe! subtle conqueror of a nation
Doomed, doomed to pass!
Dora Wilcox
113
When Lilac Blooms
When Lilac blooms, what gambolling
In hawthorn boughs! what whirr of wing!
And in sweet-peas and mignonette,
On window-ledges quaintly set,
What hum of bees! what murmuring!
And as the lindens sway and swing,
This slow blood moves with everything;
The pulses throb with fume and fret
When Lilac blooms!
For old Love stirs and fain would sing,
And revel with the lusty Spring,—
Old Love who lingers with me yet
In this, my Garden of Regret,—
Ah Love! too late thy wakening
When Lilac blooms!
Dora Wilcox
114
Mein Kind, Wir Waren Kinder.
(From the German of Heine
My child, we were children also,
Two children small and gay
We often crept into the hen-house
Where hid in the straw we lay
We crowed aloud, and if people
Were passing along the road,
Kikereku! they fancied
It was the cock that crowed
The chest that stood in the courtyard
We carpeted throughout
It made a splendid mansion,
And we ruled in it turn about.
The old cat from the neighbour’s
Would come and visit us,
And we used to bow and receive her
With the politest fuss.
We’d ask her how she was keeping
As cosily down she sat —
Since then I’ve put the same question
To many an ancient cat
We used to sit like the old folk
And talk in accents sad,
Lamenting that since our young days
The world had gone to the bad;
72
MEIN KIND, WIR WAREN KINDER
That love and faith and honour
Had vanished from off the earth;
The coffee—how expensive!
Of money—what a dearth!
The childish play is long over,
For naught can endure Time’s scathe—
Nor gold, nor world, nor seasons,
Nor honour, nor love, nor faith.
W. D. Andrews
116
The True Immortals
“ Who can but pity the founder of the pyramids
To rank among the immortal names,
Touched with imperishable glory,
Many a one puts forward claims
Who never lived, yet lives in story
The dame who wrought the woes of Troy
The men who perished by Scamander,
As real to “Macaulay’s Boy’’
As Caesar are or Alexander
Orpheus, who from the dreary shades
Eurydice would lead to light
Jason, who in gold fleeces trades,
The King who robbed himself of sight
Before our England came to birth
Or found a place among the nations,
Were famed among the sons of earth.
Had pleased uncounted generations.
Who has not heard of Guinevere
Gawain, and Bors, and Lancelot
Of Galahad, the youth austere,
And Arthur, King of Camelot?
Or coming to a later day
When good Queen Bess the reins was holding,
Who knows not Beatrice the gay,
Sweet Rosalind, and Katharine scolding?
117
THE TRUE IMMORTALS
They press and throng upon the mind,
They come from every clime and region,
Good, bad, indifferent, cruel, kind,
In every class their name is Legion.
Among them all a foremost place
“My uncle Toby” claims, and “Yorick,’
And honest “Trim” lifts up a face
More real than many a phiz historic.
More real —for what mortal name
Touched with its perishable glory
May hope for the undying fame
Of those who only live in story—
Who come from divers times and lands,
Speaking the tongues of divers nations,
And beckon with their shadowy hands
To the successive generations?
W. D. Andrews.
118
One by One
One by one, lover and friend must go,
Tho’ in the absence sorrow will linger on
One by one, as stars in the morning glow
Tremble, and fade, and are gone.
One by one, raindrops are falling fast;
Sighs moan so low and so sad in the cold wet tree
One by one, tears fall for days that are past,
Mourning, that parting must be.
One by one. Ah, and you too must go;
You who have lingered so short and so sweet a while,
One by one, —ab, that the heart must know
Sorrow, for Pleasure’s soft smile
Johannes C. Andersen.
119
Autumn
Autumn has come from o’er the seas,
With yellow hair;
Autumn in the Antipodes,
Sweet here, as there.
The spear-head poplars’ shafts of green
Are shafts of gold,
Standing in aisles that run between
Firs, dark and cold.
With golden beaten barbs a-spring
The birches quiver,
And icy-hearted dewdrops fling
Upon the river.
Ripe rounded globes on bending stems
Grow sweet and mellow,
O’erload the drooping trees with gems
Of red and yellow
Bluff Autumn fills his coffers now,
—— .. j Till running o’er;
The season of the golden bough,
And golden store.
Ah, Autumn from across the seas,
With yellow hair;
Autumn in the Antipodes,—
Sad here, as there.
Johannes C. Andersen ,
120
Sonnet to Robert Browning
They played, I know not what, —I only know
That straight I wander o’er a meadow, starred
With asphodel and lily-cup gold-barred,
And round my head the perfumed wind-breaths blow
In gentle hushful touch—and on I go
Into this poet land and gather nard,
To crown triumphantly this prophet bard;
This welder great of thoughts that seethe and glow
Then garland-wise I wove them well, then sought
A moment’s leave to place them round thy head—
Thou victor in a thousand battles fought
For man, too blind himself to fight—too dead.
And now with lightning tipped thy pen has taught
The world to strive anew for light—God-led
Dolce Cabot.
121
Rectius Vives
Horace, odes ii., 10
Friend, steer not always for the deep,
Nor shrink, when storms pursue,
Too near false shores: so shalt thou keep
Thy bearing true.
Who loves the golden mean, aloof
From squalid hut abides,
And wisely shuns the lordly roof,
Where Envy hides.
Tall pines are tempest-tossed the worst,
High towers crash most loud;
Breaks on the mountain’s summit first
The thunder-cloud.
In ill, wise hearts hope better things,
In weal, they fear for worse;
The ugly snows one Father brings
And will disperse.
And here and now though all be wrong,
Not always lasts the woe,
"When Phoebus wakes the Muse to song
And slacks his bow
Be brave and strong in trouble’s stress
Yet wisely have a care
To reef thy sail before the press
Of wind too fair.
W. S. Morris
122
Extremum Tanain
Horace, Odes iii., 10.
Though thou wert dwelling with a savage mate
By distant Don, ’twould touch thee, Lyce, still
To see me lying thus before thy gate
Exposed to wind so chill,
Hark! the door creaks, and round thy villa fair
The trees are groaning with each gust that blows
And see, the magic of the icy air
Freezes the fallen snows.
Doff this disdain that Venus hates, maybe ;
Backward the wheel will spin and drag the rope
Thou, Tuscan bred, art no Penelope
Forbidding swains to hope.
Though vows and presents move thee not at all
Nor the grey pallor of thy lover’s face.
Nor yon Greek girl who holds thy lord in thrall—
0 show us yet some grace!
Though knotted oaks were sooner bent by prayer,
And Moorish snakes more pitiful to pain,
Be warned! my bones will not for ever bea
Thy door-step, and this rain
W. S. Marris.
123
The Casualty Lists
1915.
Our glory and our mourning is begun—
Forgive, great Mother, if for a little while
To us lone dwellers in this utmost isle
Seemed very faint and far your thundering gun,
Your war-cry, the vast legions of the Hun,
His boast, his evil threats, his cruel guile—
What time our youth, encamped by holy Nile,
Hardened them in the sandstorm and the sun.
New bonds, in battle forged, in battle tried,
And tempered with our sons’ and brothers’ blood,
Link us henceforth —our common joys and pangs;
Over ten thousand homes the dark hour hangs;
Yet through the gloom and shadow of our mood
Pierce the red rays of triumph and of pride.
Arnold Wall
124
F
A Time Will Come
1915
A time will come, a time will come,
(Though the world will never be quite the same
When the people sit in the summer sun,
Watching, watching the beautiful game
A time will come, a time will come
With fifteen stars in a green heaven.
Two to be batting, and two to judge,
And round about them the fair Eleven
A time will come, a time will come,
When the people sit with a peaceful heart
Watching the beautiful, beautiful game
That is battle and service and sport and art.
A time will come, a time will come,
When the crowds will gaze on the game and the green
Soberly watching the beautiful game.
Orderly, decent, calm, serene.
The easy figures go out and in,
The click of the bat sounds clear and well
And over the studying, critical crowds
Cricket will cast her witching spell.
Yet a time will come, a time will come,
Come to us all as we watch, and seem
To be heart and soul in the beautiful game.
When we shall remember and wistfully dream—
Dream of the boys who never were here
Bom in the days of evil chance,
Who never knew sport or easy days,
But played their game in the fields of France.
Arnold Wall
125
The Old Botanist's Farewell to the Southern Alps
Farewell to the moorlands, farewell to the mountains,
Farewell to the dark cliff and deep-shadowed dingle!
No more shall I drink from the icy cold fountains
That gush in their glory from out the grey shingle.
No more shall I watch from the high windy ridges
The cloud-shadows drifting with indolent motion
The bright silver rivers, the gossamer bridges,
The far margin lit with the gleam of the ocean
No more shall I climb in the pale dawn with passion,
The dew from the snowgrass with eager feet shaking,
And hear the nor’-west wind come charging and crashing
And break on the sharp rocks with tumult and quaking.
No more shall I see on a day of still weather
Far range upon range to infinity dwindle,
Snow-crowned and ice-girdled, all slumbering together,
Erebus and Arrowsmith, d’Archiae and Tyndall.
No more shall you charm me, dear dainty Ourisia,
You broad fields of mountain-musk starred with white blossom,
Euphrasia, Raoulia, Phyllaehne, Celmisia,
No more shall you strike the deep chord in my bosom.
No more shall I pore on the hard tawny grasses
That colour the steep spurs and long level reaches,
No more shall I haunt the high desolate passes
Where the elfinwood sprawls on the fringe of the beeches.
126
THE OLD BOTANIST'S FAREWELL
No more shall I see, as the high sun is westering,
In the steep dusky valleys that look to his setting,
Thin streams in the late light all twining and glistening,
Like threads of fine silver the purple gloom fretting.
No more shall I hear the white mountain gull crying
Among the bare rocks where the great gusts go booming
Six thousand feet up where in rough hollows lying
The broody old tarns hang a-drowsing and glooming.
I shall see them far off in the magical distance,
With bloom like a ripe plum, so fresh and so tender
They will beckon and woo me and call with insistence,
The big shining Alps in their pomp and their splendour.
But I camp no more in the beech-wooded valleys,
No more shall I sleep in the roar of the river,
Or wander alone in the cool shady alleys,
For my feet have come down to the lowlands for ever
Arnold Wall.
127
Pan
Down a west-sloping valley, by a pool
O’er-gilded by the dying summer day,
Piping alone among the sighing reeds,
Mourning for Syrinx by the water-side,
Sat Pan alone; soft on the evening breeze
His low-blown music fluted down the vale.
The trees, the rocks, all nature heard the sound,
And guessed the words he dared not speak aloud
“Oh cruel nymph, why did’st thou flee from me,
Who loved thee with the love thou did’st not know?
Who love thee still, tho ’ thou hast gone from me!
Long did I seek thee thro ’ the dark, sweet shades
Where hidden violets, in the ancient wood.
With sweet fresh fragrance fill the dewy air
Till last I found thee in the mournful reeds
That shiver coldly round the woodland pool.
And now I sit alone among the reeds
And make me pipes to voice my sad complaint
And think of thee departed.” Here the strains
Ceased, and the last notes floated down the vale
Towards the pale-green west, and fresher blew
Athwart the fragrance of that ancient wood
The evening breeze, and stirred the hollow reeds,
Making a rustling whisper through the air—
Lost Syrinx’ voice: “I prayed unto the gods
To save me, and they saved me,” and again,
“Farewell!” At this uprose the woodland god,
And passed away among the shadowy glades
Down to the western plain. And the pale light
Died in the west, and night fell on the pool,
T. M. Curnow
128
Pantoum of the Plug
0 plug, whate’er material thou’rt made of,
Whoe’er with privy paw thy sere leaves stole
From wheresoe’er thy grew—l’m not afraid of
Dry cabbage leaves or microbes, on the whole!
Whoe ’er with privy paw thy sere leaves stole,
Driven by autumn’s wandering breeze maybe,
Dry cabbage leaves or microbes on the whole Have not been found to grow on any tree
Driven by autumn’s wandering breeze mayb
Along with other things, which, far from sweet
Have not been found to grow on any tree,
I think I see thee taken from the street
Along with other things, which, far from sweet
A more fastidious man might well detest
I think I see thee taken from the street—
Like a Jack Tar in days of yore, and “pressed.”
A more fastidious man might well detest
Such gruesome compounds, hunted round about
Like a Jack Tar, in days of yore, and pressed
For service under fire, until knocked out
Such gruesome compounds, hunted round about
And such that keep nerves cool and cares from pressing;
For service under fire, until knocked out
Thou doest well—accept my heartfelt blessing!
And such that keep nerves cool and cares from pressing.
From wheresoe’er they grew, I’m not afraid of
Thou doest well—accept my heartfelt blessing.
0 plug, whate’er material thou’rt made of!
T. M. Curnow
86
Two Voices
To the brilliant streets and bustle of a city full of Spring,
To the soft, contented river, and the sleeping shining spires,
From the distant hills disrobing there are messages a-wing,
From the splendid dusks and dawnings, from the flaming sunset fires.
I have heard them through the clamour of the people, in the sun,
And the winds that whine at midnight when the city is at rest;
And the harp-strings of my heart are set a-trembling one by one
Till the sweeping of their wide and keen harmonics calls me West.
Oh, the dew of darkling mornings on the grasses green and grey!
Oh! the flush before the saffron, and the blushes of the snow!
Dark ratas stalking down the gorge (a-waiting for the day),
To the sheen of rippling waters in the shingle sweep below.
The threads of fire on mountain-sides in purple of the night—
The dusted gold of tussocks and the music of the fords—
The gorse and wattle flame that sets the dusty road alight—
The thin bright air—my harmony has all of these for chords.
But from eastward comes the call of glistening beaches, sleeping bays,
And the pale, thin, shivering grasses in the land-wind set astir;
And the lace of broken rollers, wove for us in summer days,
■When I sought my ocean mother with my love, and found her fair.
130
TWO VOICES
Oh the beach, of worlds forsaken! Oh the pressure of soft hands,
In our lotus-land of ocean, lulled to mellow minor keys!
Oh the kiss among the lupins, green among the grey of sands,
When our swaying souls were shaken in the rush of roaring seas.
How golden were the evenings in that slumbrous summer weather,
When we plucked the scarlet poppies of delight and of desire!
How musical the mornings when we wandered forth together!
All royal the sea-kingdom where our feet could never tire.
Rival chimings, murmuring still of mountain-pleasure, seadelight,
Mocking melodies of memories of what I loved the most
When morning’s golden promises have rolled away the night
It is cold in this my city, and the music all is lost
M. C. Keane.
131
Summer Longing
How well I know what I mean to do
When the long, glad days shall dawn;
When the fields drink deep of the morning dew,
And the breeze at noon-tide wanders through
A wealth of golden com,
I’ll take the easy vagrant way
Along the laughing stream;
For I know a reach where the ripples play,
And the trout leap high on a summer’s day
The grassy banks between.
The willow leans to the calling stream
That laves his mossy bole,
Where fretted shadows love to dream
At stress of noon; and the paled sunbeam
Is wine to the panting soul.
In plashing shallows still I’ll stand,
With pliant rod and creel.
And east the lure with gentle hand,
And draw the mottled prize to land
With music of the reel
When the stem old hills in the tender west
Are bathed with flooding gold,
And the gloaming casts beneath their crest
Its purple shade, I’ll leave the quest.
Oh, summer joys of old!
132
133
Upon the Hearth
Upon the hearth the wood lies piled aright,
So that, if one but came
And stooped, and touched its deadness with a light,
Sudden, what glow and flame!
Even so, my hearth is swept, my fire is laid,
Yet all is cold and dark
My spirit kneels before it, chill, dismayed
And cries, “Send, Love, thy spark.”
Laudabunt Alii
There are some that long for a limpid lake by a blue Italian shore,
Or a palm grove out where the rollers break and the coral beaches roar;
There are some for the land of the Japanee and the tea-girls’ twinkling feet;
And some for the isles of the summer sea, afloat in the dancing heat;
And others are exiles all their days, ’midst black or white or brown,
Who yearn for the clashing of crowded ways, and the lights of London town.
But always I would wish to be where the seasons gently fall
On the further Isle of the Outer Sea, the last little isle of all,
A fair green land of hill and plain, of rivers and watersprings,
Where the sun still follows after the rain, and ever the hours have wings,
With its bosomed valleys where men may find retreat from the rough world’s way,
Where the sea-wind kisses the mountain wind between the dark and the day.
The combers swing from the China Sea to the California coast,
The North Atlantic takes toll and fee of the best of the Old World’s boast,
And the waves run high with the tearing crash that the Capebound steamers fear—
But they’re not so free as the waves that lash the rocks by Sumner pier,
And wheresoever my body be, my heart remembers still
The purple shadows upon the sea, low down from Sumner hill.
134
LAUDABUNT ALII
The warm winds blow through Kuringai; the cool winds from the south
Drive little clouds across the sky by Sydney harbour-mouth
But Sydney Heads feel no such breeze as comes from nor’-west rain
And shakes the pines and the bue-gum trees by hill and gorge and plain,
And whistles down from Porter’s Pass, over the fields of wheat,
And brings a breath of tussock grass into a Christchurch street.
Or the East wind dropping its sea-bom rain, or the South wind wild and loud
Comes up and over the waiting plain, with a banner of driving cloud;
And if dark clouds bend to the teeming earth, and the hills are dimmed with rain,
There is only to wait for a new day’s birth and the hills stand out again.
For no less sure than the rising sun, and no less glad to see
Is the lifting sky when the rain is done and the wet grass rustles free.
Some day we may drop the Farewell Light, and lose the winds of home—
But where shall we win to a land so bright, however far we roam ?
We shall long for the fields of Maoriland, to pass as we used to pass
Knee-deep in the seeding tussock, and the long lush English grass;
And we may travel a weary way ere we come to a sight as grand
As the lingering flush of the sun’s last ray on the peaks of Maoriland.
A. E. Currie
135
The Reformer
The harbour was a dreaming lake
Of quiet water brimming,
Where, all alone, a kittiwake
Was delicately swimming.
Her quick feet made a double fret,
Dark threads upon a coverlet,
Whose level blue was overset
With points of silver trimming.
The blue eyes of the sleepy sea Smiled lazily.
The kittiwake swam here and there
With purposeful endeavour;
Her dainty consequential air
Showed pride in being clever;
Her breast, she knew without a doubt,
Had rubbed the ocean wrinkles out,
And all the waters round about
Would now be smooth for ever
The grey eyes of the watching sea
Smiled thoughtfully.
The hurrying dawn was pale with pain.
Wind-furies, harshly crying,
Tossed on the pier a draggled skein
Of feathers, slackly lying.
Like a street hag whose hideous sleep
Marks the drear end that high days reap,
The kittiwake lay still—a heap
Of brave dreams, drably dying
The green eyes of the wanton sea Smiled carelessly.
0. N. Gillespie ,
136
Six-Thirty
The hilltop street lamp, suddenly in jest
Flicks out the pale flame of the climbing moon.
And twilight, dropping from a cloud balloon
Sets off as postman with a bag of rest
And I’m on the ferry where neighbourly fun
Is sign that the day’s drab flurry is done.
The hill-dames round the harbour sit and smile,
Green grannyhoods with earth-glee quivering;
They gossip slyly on the one droll thing-
That men must leave their ledgers for a while.
And both ferry funnels wave fat plumes of smoke
To show they have fathomed the hills’ fine joke.
The fond Bay stretches out his warm brown arms.
And from them slips that ready flirt, the pier.
Coquettishly, as we draw slowly near,
She stirs to make parade of all her charms
And home thoughts like stars dance in everyone’s face.
As steamer and pier hug in shameless embrace.
Soon all the hill’s awink with window eyes,
Warm eyes that watch beside the waiting doors,
That hide joy-brimmed, ecstatic pinafores.
And so I’m singing, swinging up the rise!
I’ll soon have one knuckle delightfully in
The tiny cleft curve of my baby’s chin
0. N. Gillespie
137
Evensong
Sing a song of washing-up—shining clean plates
Chattering together like a crowd of old mates
Buxom cups and saucers, and little white bowls
Purely and demurely bright like little girl-souls.
Hear the hymn to cosiness
The tinkling dishes chime
Ringing in the doziness
Of evening time.
Mollie-of-the-wise-eyes leaves her hard sum,
In important apron she is helping mum
All of us are washing up: big and small folks
Sharing and comparing all the home-sweet jokes.
Hear the speech to cosiness
The doting kettle speaks,
Babbling of the rosiness
Of maiden cheeks.
Lamplight on the busy hands that fold the teacloths
Magically turns them into flitting gold moths.
Round me all the comfortable gods of home things
Flick away the fusses of the day with blithe wings.
Ring the chimes for cosiness
And sweetly humdrum times,
Passing-bells for prosiness And high-flown rhymes.
0. N. Gillespie
138
Arcady
Where grassy meadows skirt the way,
Where daphne grows by hedge and tree
Where crickets sing the livelong day,
And gaily hums the pilfering bee;
Where pipes in old-world melody
Sound sweet upon the broad, sweet wind
There lies the land of Arcady,
Which I shall never find.
Sleeping or waking, night or day,
That haunting dream comes back to me,
Borne on the wings of some old lay,
From ancient lands across the sea
And, fruitless tho’ the vision be.
There comes a longing to my mind
For that sweet land of Arcady,
Which I shall never find.
Where lies that land? I cannot say—
Far, far, beyond Earth’s boundary
And he must tread a weary way,
Whoe’er its peaceful plains would see
devious paths of mystery
That thro’ the realms of Nowhere wind.
He’ll reach that land of Arcady
Which I shall never find.
L’Envoi
Far off, in realms of reverie,
By slow, full, rivers meadow-lined,
There lies that land of Arcady
Which I shall never find.
139
Ecce Homo
Nay, what is this that I have seen to-day?
My turn of duty done, I loitered towards
The City gate that looks to Calvary,
And there saw crowds, and marching men-at-arms.
’Twas Casca’s maniple, so I went to see.
(They cannot equal mine—shields dull, greaves loose,
Breastplates ill-fitted.) They were leading forth
A criminal to crucifixion, one
Who claimed, they said, to be a mighty King,
Immortal. Now he paced behind them, bowed
Beneath two cedar beams, whose weight he bore.
Blood-stained his forehead from a wreath of thorns
Placed there in jest by our rough lads:—his back
Scarred with the scourge-wounds, and the swarthy face
Darkened by many suns, but pale—and yet—
I know not how—as full I met its gaze
Was that that made me feel like a whipped boy
That glance did look into my inmost soul
All evil erewhile done rose to my mind.
And then I looked again, and straightway thought
Of her that bare me, loved me as her life,
And of Crispinus, more than dear to me —
More dear than fifty brothers, my one friend.
My heart leapt: I would save this man—“Ho, Casca,
Let the man—” Then the grip of discipline
Did freeze my tongue, and Casca, turning, smiled,
And mocked me. “What, Licomius, drunk ere noon!”
And so the swarthy Galilean passed
That claimed to be a King, yea, more—a God.
I’ve stood in the Praetorian Guard, and seen
Augustus Cffisar of the race of Gods,
In mail of burnished gold and purple robe
Yet this man, spite of shame, disgrace, nigh death,
97
o
98
ECCE HOMO
Bereft of all the ornaments of man
Was thirty-thousand times more like a God
Than thirty Caesars —Nay, I cannot rest;
Strange longings and new fears oppress my sold
I cannot pray to Caesar. “0 great Jove
Aye, Zeus all-powerful—” All my words, alas,
Are empty sounds. 0 mock me not, ye Gods
Stay, there is that man: Thou whose gaze I met-
, And something tells me that Thou dost know me-
If in pale Orcus Thou art living still.
No help in heaven and none in earth I find,
Help, Galilean, for my heart believes.
T. E. Currie
Non Omnis Moriar
(Horace, Odes iii., 30.)
I’ve made a monument than bronze more lasting;
Than regal pyramid more highly placed;
By raging north-wind, flight of time, nor wasting
Of showers, nor countless years, to be defaced.
I shall not wholly perish: part surviving
Shall ’scape the deathful Goddess, and live still,
In praise of future ages ever thriving,
While priest and mute maid climb Jove’s Holy Hill.
Where Daunus thirsts, his rustic kingdom ruling,
Where rages Aufidus in angry foam,
I shall be told, though low-bom, first in schooling
The strains of Greece to lend their tunes to Rome.
Take, Muse, as thine own due this proud renown,
And grant me, of thy grace, Apollo’s crown.
T. E. Currie.
99
Light and Shade
After the sunshine, shadow,
After the blue sea, grey,
After the sunset, moonrise,
And the sea a silvered way.
After the gay, the soft lights,
Rose and lilac and blue
After the bright, the dark sky
And the white stars shining through.
After the voices, silence,
After the work-time, dreams
After the task, the fireside,
Embers and warmth and gleams.
After the mirth, the hush-fall
After the playing, rest,
After the turmoil, quiet,
But sleep, after all, is best
Irene Wilson
143
My Pool
There stands a little, silent pool
Deep-dwelling in my heart;
Crystal its waters are, and cool.
Shut-off from the world—-apart It stands,
My little pool—apart.
Tall, slender tree-trunks ring it round,
Through them the sunbeams creep;
Nor ever comes an alien sound
To break upon its sleep, So still
My pool is, and so deep.
Pale flowers look up, sweet and shy,
Where rustling grasses grow
And fair white cloudlets, sailing high,
Upon the waters throw
Their shade
And fleck the deeps helow
Its waters rise with healing balm,
Drawn from unmeasured springs;
And there my soul is lapp’d in calm
And joy of quiet things,
And rests
Beneath God’s folded wings.
From dust and drought of weary days,
From tasks that never cease,
I still can travel hidden ways
To instant, sure release,
And find
My pool,—my pool of Peace
Irene Wilson
144
Autumn in Christchurch
Now from the taper-fingers of the trees,
How thick are strewn the gaudy shapes of gold,
Once summer leaves a-tremble in the breeze
Restoring now their treasure to the mould.
Now the red berries revel on the hedge,
And apple-cheeks are blushing as the rose;
Purple and pale, the starry eosmea spreads
Her tall bouquets within the garden-close.
In graceful pride the rare chrysanthemums
Their many-petalled crowns awhile shall wear
Beside the stream a fair procession comes
Where toi-tois toss their silken hair;
And songs of birds at eve too wistful thrill,
When the spent sunshine pales upon the hill.
Nellie Macleod.
145
Hougomont, 1815
“ La plaine, la plaine,
Immensement & perdre la halein
Emil Verhaeren,
The West wind rolls in riot from the sea
Pouring grey air across the Belgian plain,
The plain, enormous, dim, immense, inane,
Like the wide ocean of eternity.
And by one plumy poplar I saw stand
A. blackened cottage on a little hill,
No fire upon the hearth, and all things still,
No patient peasant toiling at the land.
No windows glow: the bitter wind sweeps through;
The earth is strewn with ashes grey and white.
The posts hang charred; the quick red lines of light
Slumber and smoulder, fall and glow anew
So stands the ruin; and the winds roam by
The clouds gloom low: the sun is sinking fast;
And on the hill of Hougomont a vast
And towering phantom strikes against the sky.
“I prophesy a red apocalypse
There shall be doom on every pleasant thing,
There shall be fear on emperor and king,
And fear by sea upon all merchant ships.
“Seven times have I this little peaceful hill
With scarlet surge of armies overdrown’d;
And here stand I with fire and iron crown’d,
Here on my holy hill I stand to kill.
146
lIOU GO MONT
“The glory of the fields is eaten away,
The red fire creeps by cottage timbers old,
It tops the minster with a crown of gold,
And all in smoke and ashes shall decay.”
There came a stir amid the growing dark
And a white figure rising in the gloom,
Shadowy like a ghost in some old room
When light is waned away to one dull spark
“Alas; this is my holy hill of peace,
This hut, my temple of the ancient years,
And thou a brumal phantom that appears
Only to fade away if light increase
“The fire shall kindle on my hearth agair
And the blue smoke drift up into the sky;
But thou in all thy vanity shalt die,
And men pass by who seek for thee in vain.”
The sun blazed red upon the western rim,
And threw upon the low and blackened sky
Webs of blood-red, red phantoms floating by
And a red glare amid the valleys dim
Men never seek for me in vain,” he cried.
“My sons of blood spring upward from the soil
Destroy your work and slow laborious toil
In one superb catastrophe of pride.
“Dig patiently, dear maid, the stubborn clay;
For though you dig your furrows deep and sure,
One thing there is that ever shall endure—
The blood that I have poured thereon this day.”
04
HOUGOMONT
White in the gloaming her one light shone fair,
Her one white flame, one spark or tiny star,
As that which tells the mariner from afar
That some black coast-line is not wholly bare.
“ ’Twas I,” she said, “who helped man’s infant race,
Who carved him out a cave in dark despair,
Who gave him fire, and bade him settle there
Conquering a little colony of space.
So by my arts he grew in his endeavour.
He tamed the brutes, wrought out the whirring loom
Spread, as he went, my empire through the gloom,
And that shall stand, 0 that shall stand for ever.
“Thine empire cannot stand: it falls away;
It leaps and dies the moment it attains.
The flame sucks back; death ends all bitter pains,
So passes like a shadow all thy day.”
Only a tempest of black atmosphere
With waning veins and ribbons of bright red
Tossed in the stormy heavens overhead
But the invisible voice resounded clear.
“It shall not pass, the Day; it has not come
I prophesy a red apocalypse
On every land, upon all seas and ships,
When the Day shall come, and the Day shall come
“For a darkness of night hath fallen down,
An evil night upon city and town,
When the Devil shall wax, and God shall wane,
And men look up for the light in vain
Prophets of evil things shall come
When the Day is come, when the Day is come.
105
HOUGOMONT
“Oh sorrow and sin the darkness brings
When kings and the ministers of kings
Shall weave in a deep conspiracy
Plots of evil by land and sea.
And greed shall grow in iniquity,
When the Day of the Lord is come
“Wars and the rumours of wars shall be,
Fighting by land, and fighting by sea
Lands shall be stolen, and arms wax great
And a prince be killed by guile and by hate. Ha! Ha!
I shall stamp my foot, and beat my drum
For the Day shall come, the Day shall come.
“Here shall I stand, and loud rejoice;
And the nations all shall hear my voice.
The Prussian Savage shall wake again.
And his hosts roll down from the Baltic plain;
He shall come with the Princes of Germany,
And the Turk his comrade in arms shall be,
When the Day of the Lord is come.
“I shall stamp my foot, and the Turk shall come
And the Indian come, and the Arab come;
I shall stamp my foot, and beat my drum,
And men shall spring up from over the seas,
From the furthest isles of tropic trees,
When the day of the Lord is come
“Blood in the earth, and blood in the air,
, 7 And buried death as a hidden snare;
Death in the sea, and under sea,
And murder hid in mystery,
When I stamp my foot, and beat my drum
And the Day is come, and the Day is come.
149
HOUGOMONT
One spark but lit the darkness, and one sound,
One sweet strong voice that sang a happy strain
Of homely things returning once again,
And holy rites again on holy ground.
“0 bind the earth with iron bands,
And hide the sun with dust;
But God works in the darkness
As all His children must
“And though thy phantom armies
Crowd all the sky above,
Christ, praying in Gethsemane,
Works still the law of love.
“Men shall arise in England,
And a man in Italy,
With a tossing sea of voices,
Tumultuous to be free.
“Kings and their thrones shall totter,
Sick with a mortal dread;
And Liberty again in France
Lift up her stricken head.
“And out of ancient Russia
Shall be heard a voice of pain
And at the last a prophet
Preach ancient things again.
“The men of the new universe
Shall bow the knee to thee,
But in the temple of the heart
Shall worship only me.
“But they shall die, and I shall die
In the ruin of thy Day
150
HO U GO MONT
This hill shall then be Calvary
For ever and for aye.
“A million times I take my cross :
And they shall follow me
A million times I die again
Until I conquer thee.”
So spoke these spirits standing on the plain,
One to another as the darkness grew,
Till all the air was of so black a hue
That power of human eye was but in vain.
Then came a sound confused of marching throngs,
Armies and mobs; and evil wings brushed by.
A thundering and whir was in the sky,
A sound of multitudinous battle songs
What phantoms were they? Peace and War maybe
Or Right and Evil, yea, or Right and Might—
I cannot tell; nor dare a name to write
For those whose names the darkness hid from me.
I only know that at the last shall stand
A timbered cottage on a little hill.
A fire upon the hearth, a loom, a mill,
And weapons for the tilling of the land.
The windows glow, the goodwife standing by—
And coming home from mighty wars and great
The warrior watches, standing at the gate,
The blue smoke drift into the windy sky
Philip Carrington
Desire
My body walks in England
By little village stiles
But my spirit goes a journey
Of thirteen thousand miles.
For daily as I wander here
In rain or fine or red,
My spirit walks by Cashmere Hill,
Or Kowai river-bed.
The tufted grass is yellow
With silken silver gleams.
And the tawny hills are high and steep
In the country of my dreams.
Dry is the stony stream that once
Tumultuously ran
But the reeds of flax along its bed
Are tall as any man.
And out of pale green leaves of it
Clear in the golden light,
The slender stems of pampas grass
Wave tassels silken white.
Oh would that I with fleshly eyes
Could gaze upon the plain,
The silver-sliding river
And ocean once again
152
no
DESIRE
See the great sun descend on it
Behind the peaks of snow
And the hundred miles of mountain
Blush in the afterglow
But, oh, I walk in England
Under green English trees
And only send my spirit
Across the seven seas.
Philip Carrington.
Salisbury, Easter, 1915.
Rangiora
The land has no antiquity
'Said the little voice in my head.)
After all it has no history
(No history, it said.)
I was riding along by Rangiora,
And considering how through endless blue August days
I had ridden from village to village
In the holy land of England;
And every fold in the ground,
And every turn in the road
Was full of remembrances and histories.
And that is why the voice said, No history.
No history it said,
But what is history?
So I looked at the sacred fields of harvest
Consecrated by the labour of man and the blessing of
heaven,
And strove to see their story.
And I saw the swamp and the bush, of long ago
And the wild brown marsh birds flying to and fro,
The bittern and the heron, and the owl,
And all the clutter of screaming river-fowl,
As man rides into the silent sanctuaries
And pools of the wood, paddling his own canoe,
To build his hut, and plant the kumara,
And little wild children playing in the trees.
So the Maori heads tbe procession.
That consecrates this land with labour and blood.
154
RANGIORA
Then come the white men with the axe and gun,
And the birds are killed, and the trees lie low in the sun,
And the ground is cleared and stubbed and burned and drained;
And each descending day
Is another chapter in history,
And another acre gained,
And the long march goes on
They come with harrow and plough: with pick and spade they come,
No music with their march, no bugle and no drum
No colours swinging high, no clapping, and no cry
No ribbons and streamers gay
They march through glory of sunny summer days,
Through streams of pouring rain,
Through frosts that bind the plain
With horse and dog they ride uneven ways;
By pain they attain,
And labour and agony
This is the high procession that I saw
(And would love to draw)
Wind round the paddocks by the gorse fence edge
Blessing the boundary hedge,
And consecrating it with sweat and blood
Who made that poplar grove?
And drew those lines of oaks
That stiffly hide the little house of wood
Whose hearthfire dimly smokes
A cloudy blue?
I crept up, too,
And peeped in at the window that I might see
What lovely mystery
Was planted there, Worth so much agony
And guarded with such care.
155
H
RANGIORA
And there I saw a mother mild,
And in her lap a little child,
With the loveliness that Mary wore
In the stable of Bethlehem.
And this most lowly mystery
Is the end of every history
That every man shall come to adore
In the stable of Bethlehem.
Philip Carrington
156
Nocturne
The deep, quiet heart of night beats soft; dim stars,
Faint with the beauty of the new-ris’n moon,
Hang in the mystery of heaven. Streams
Unheard by day, to whose most sweet music
The night gives ear, hurry in quick laughter
Down to the shore—to lose themselves in sand.
Here little waves creep in by one and one,
Subdued almost to silence, and yet ripple
Like the low laugh of children’s secret games.
Quiet else the hay, untroubled, breathing peace;
And far across the water, veiled in mists,
— ~ * > ' V —WV. The jewelled city sleeps, forgetting woe.
The majesty of the encircling hills
Falls like a blessing on shore, city, bay
Stilling the awakened heart in holy awe,
So fair, so awful is it, so serene,
The visible face of God—Yet must we forth,
And may not linger idly, up and out
Out where the harbour opens, and the ships
Pale in the blue immeasurable unknown
But not unarmed, for in our hearts we bear
Unfading, all the glory of this night
That when the great world turns to us a face
Unlovely, when all we see, women, ■mien.
Seem gross, and greedily seeking, find not,
The cry of crowded cities racking nerves
Stretched to the knowledge of old evil
First seen, we may have vision and keep faith,
And, scorning not, remember these are part—
If noble in naught else, noble in this—
Part of the same world, and their part ordained
With the pure heavens and the gracious hills.
11.M.h
157
R1
"A Very Gallant Gentleman" (On the Death of Captain Oates.)
Alone he went into the cold, white land,
The calm face turning ever towards his goal.
There was a patient glory in his eyes;
There was the light of Life that never dies;
There was a kindly love within his soul;
And Resolution walked at his right hand.
Swiftly he strode; and the cold, glittering world
Stretched snowy arms to beat him back; but yet
Nor utter weariness, nor utter pain,
Nor fear, nor death, could turn him back again;
Still in the way his feet he firmly set
And faced the winds that round about him hurled.
Ere the storm ceased, and the new day began
His walk was ended, and the path he trod
Was covered with the lightly-falling snow:
A warrior had fought his fight—and lo!
O’er the white world, straight to the Throne of God,
There walked a very gallant gentleman.
158
The Street
Long hours the asphalt, grimed, blistered, and old,
A weary monotone of endless gray,
Smoulders in dull hostility. The day
Mocks, in a challenging splendour blue and gold,
The humbled ugliness; and then the bold
Vagabond wind flings in its face his stray
Litter of insults; urchin dust-whirls play
Their fitful games in the gutters... .But, behold—
The dusk falls, and along the purpling street
Night strews her silence: cool and still, the air
Enfolds the throbbing hours in a soft
Forgetfulness. The kindly shadows meet
In noiseless converse, and the lamps aloft
Caress with silver pavements suddenly fair.
J. H. E. Schroder.
116
Triolets
You ask me why I love, dear heart,
\ our lightest look, and word, and smile....
I love you when with pretty art
You ask me why. I love, dear heart,
Your wide dark eyes, your lips apart,
Your lissom grace’s every wile.
You ask me why? I love, dear heart,
Your lightest look, and word, and smile.
Can it be love that makes the world go round?
I read it in a book—and*so, I wonder!
And is the riddle’s answer really found?
Can it be love? That makes the world go round?
Suppose the theory true (it might be sound)
Astronomy must have made a frightful blunder!
Can it be love that makes the world go round?
I read it in a book.* and so I—wonder.
If all the water turned to beer,
How very drunk we’d all become!
Some people would be awful queer
If all the water turned to beer!
What jolly lectures we should hear
From profs, (oh joy!) no longer glum....
If all the water turned to beer
How very drunk we’d all become!
J. H. E. Schroder.
160
"God the Invisible King"
The novel-reading world was stunned When Mr. Wells
Invented sex. He writes about it still— Because it sells.
More startling yet the book (three hnud red pages odd)
Whose purport seems to be that Wells has now Invented God.
161
The Answer
Oh, they often talk about her of an evening in the tap-room,
And they wonder where her bones are lying now,
With her rigging and her cordage all a-rotting, all a-rotting,
And the question still unanswered on her prow
Oh, she once belonged to Smithson when he bartered round the Islands,
And he plied her in the fruit and copra trade;
But he sold her out to Jackson for a fortune back in ’l6,
At the time when there were fortunes to be made
Only Jackson he went crazy, for when freights were running high,
Sure he painted out the name upon her bow;
And he ’tended to her rigging and he ran her far away,
With a little wriggly question on her prow.
And she never came to harbour as the other freighters come,
But she questioned every corner of the blue;
We would see her up in China, we would pass her in Malay,
And we sensed her prying feelers in Peru.
Bless me, what’s the use of questions if you’ve got a sea to sail,
That is charted by the ones who sailed before;
If your compass points to nor’-ward, and the stars are in the sky,
And the lights are blinking out from every shore?
Oh, it’s ages since we passed her in the twilight, on the ocean,
And the tap-room now believes she’s gone below;
162
163
THE ANSWER
With her rigging and her cordage all a-rotting, all a-rotting,
Down where every crazy questioner must go.
Out beside a western islet, safe and sheltered, she is anchored;
Where the palms come waving down to meet the tide,
And the captain shakes with laughter as he joins the children’s game,
On the golden sand that stretches far and wide.
Oh, her long and weary wanderings are over now for ever,
And the sea-birds come a-calling round her bow
And her precious human cargo has a-settled down to rest,
For the question has been answered on her prow
H. C. D. Somerset.
Heathcote
A single row of solitary trees
The valley shows, thro’ whose dark giant trunks
There sweeps a trail of thin autumnal mist,
Wraith-like, their winding sheet; and, dark and cold
They rear their heads in sharp outline against
The tussock gold of round, receding hills,
Along whose ridges steals a twilight shade
To enwrap in purple pall the darkening plain.
P. G. M. H
164
Goblins
They are nearing, they are nearing,
Little yellow-coated goblins
With deep eyes of gold;
And in the nooks and crannies
They are peering, peering,
Little crooked goblins with eyes so old.
They are coming, they are coming
Singing soft, singing low
A song without change;
And never in the world
Was heard such humming
Of little crooked goblins with eyes so strange.
They are here, they are here,
And their song is stealing
My life’s breath
Softly, slowly,
And in my heart—fear
Of little crooked goblins with eyes of Death.
1922.
C. G. Drury
165
To Timothy
Two wells of liquid amber are thine eyes,
Set in the misty greyness of thy head,
Filled with most perfect love and sympathy.
Thy silent understanding passeth far
The many-tongued condolences of men;
The gentle rubbing of thy slender form
Against my cheek, 0 Timothy, my cat,
Far sweeter is than their compassionate stare.
Eighteen
She is very young and stately,
She has just grown up but lately,
And she walks along sedately
With the haughtiest of airs;
But in spite of homage paid her,
And the long gowns they have made her,
To-day, when I waylaid her—
She was sliding down the stairs!
1922.
A. G. Smith,
166
Short Stop: Hagley Park, Christchurch
I cross through fog the tawdry park
At night, and tread the grass dew-kissed;
While all around through all the dark
The trams seem wandering where they list,
September
Voice of a bird clear calling sweet
A glint of lighter green among the trees,
A flash of little twinkling feet—
“Hush!” whispers the breeze —
Lo, in the grasses,
Young September passes!
“Wake, forest children from your dreams,”
Calls the youngest, young daughter of the year;
Echoing, laughing, sing the streams
“Joy! She is here’’—
Swift through the grasses
Young September passes!
1922,
Enid S. Bovrii
167
Joy
Think not that Joy, so fugitive, has fled
For ever from your heart, her dwelling-place,
Leaving the house bereft of her soft tread,
And rooms no more made lovely by her face.
Arm you with faith: garnish and dust and sweep,
And on each hearth let welcoming fires bum;
For, in the hour when you shall cease to weep
Swift, like a homing bird, she will return
1923.
Hilary Wall.
168
Tu Ne Qnaesieris
Horace, Odes 1., xi
Never ask, ’tis lore unholy, whether Heaven to thee or me
This or that day may have given for our last, Leuconoe
Never tempt Chaldean numbers; better bear whate’er befall;
Jove may send thee many winters, this may be the last of all,
This, which hurls the weary billows of the sea of Tuscany
On the headlands: fill the wine cups; that’s the true philosophy
But be sure you strain the ruby ere you drink, and with the thought
That your days are few and numbered, cut your hopes of long life short;
Even while these words are spoken many a grudging moment’s past;
Love to-day, nor trust to-morrow; think that this may be your last.
F, W. Haslam.
169
NOTES
PART I,
Cantuariensium Carmen Academicum. Page iv
Allusions in verse 1 to the Avon, the gardens so characteristic of Christchurch, the foresight of the pioneers and the connection, still maintained, with the Mother Country ; in verse 4 to annual Revues and the activities of the Drama Society ; in verse 5 to Rugby Football and Tennis.
Long Live Canterbury College. Page 1
By Heinrich von Haast: the first of the Diploma Day Songs and always printed at the head of the annual song sheet. Included as one of the “Anthems” of Colonial Colleges in “ The Australasian Students’ Song Book.”
Ad Lydiam. Page 4
Ista (cui est nomen Linton). Mrs. Lynn-Linton, the novelist, pioneer of the “ Feministe ” movement is here apparently referred to.
Redeant Saturnia Regna. Page 6
“Was the only Malet we knew.” Mr. F. de C. Malet, Chairman of the Board of Governors of Canterbury College, 1885-1894. “ 0 we cared not a dam.” Dam, a small Italian coin.
Quot Homines, Tot Sententiae. Page 8
Allusions to Cook, C. H. H., Professor of Mathematics, 1879-1908. Brown, J. Macmillan, Professor of English and History, 1879-1895 ; now Chancellor of the University (1922). Alpers, 0. T. J., Assistant to Professor J. M. Brown, 1890-92 ; his locum tenens, 1892.
“ Conic v Sections.” The printer’s persistent version of this, in proof, was “ comic sections,” which the Editors corrected with reluctance. In many ways it expressed so admirably their view of this abstruse learning.
A College-of-Wales Young Man. Page 11
Professor Arnold Wall was at the College of Aberystwith before coming to New Zealand.
Bicky. Page 13
Professor A. W. Bickerton, Physics and Chemistry, 1879 to 1903.
127
NOTES
The College Engineers. Page j 5 Verse 2. Students of the School of Engineering do their practical work at the Addington Railway Workshops, near Christchurch.
Verse 6. “ The pale pink paper’s sneers.” An allusion to some criticism Christchurch " Truth,” printed for some years on pink paper.
Bull Froggie. Page 18
The grim Georgie ” —George R. Marriner, for many years Assistant to the Professor of Biology (Dr. Chilton).
The Otagiad. Page 20
Last line ; “ res ad nihil redeunt omnes.” The match (Canterbury Colleg versus Otago University, 1886) ended in a draw.
Registrar Joynt. Pace 28
First sung by the author at a dinner given by the Victoria College Graduates’ Association, in honour of Mr. J. W. Joynt, Registrar of the University of New Zealand, on the eve of his departure for England to take up the post of University Agent in London, which he still holds. “ That Shield now historical.” This is the trophy competed for in the InterCollege Debate in the annual University Tournament.
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Canterbury College. Page 32
“ Her demonstrative Page,” Samuel Page, B.Sc., for 40 years Demonstrator in Chemistry. Retired this, Jubilee, year. Say, Father Amos.” Amos was College Janitor for more than 20 years. Verse 3. The Cottage. * This historical building disappeared with “ the Old Tin Shed” to make way for the Library. The present Women’s Commonroom endeavours to supply its place, but fails.
Two Miniatures. Page 3g
A. F. Morrison, Lecturer in Civil Engineering, P. G. Bamford, Lecturer and Demonstrator, School of Engineering, under Professor Robert Julian Scott, (1888-1923) the subject of the first “ miniature.”
The Rhyme of the Rector. p™ 39
Some years ago the Board of Governors invited applications for the position of Professor of Education, who should also be Rector of the College. The advertisement was withdrawn, and it was maliciously thought at the time that the explanation given in the “ Rhyme of the Rector ” was the true one. The College has now both Rector and Professor of Education, in Dr. Charles Chilton and Professor James Shelley.
128
NOTES
Song of the Dissolute Yodng Man. Page 41
“Henry Dan.” H. D. Broadhead, Acting-Professor of Classics during Professor Stewart’s absence at the War.
Lines to the Drama Society. Page 44
Professor Shelley, soon after taking up his duties as Professor of Education, founded the College Drama Society. Its ambitious programme has in large measure been successfully carried out.
Intrant Animalia. p age 4g
Allusions, in order of their occurrence, are to Chilton (“ rector ”), Professor of Biology and Rector of the College ; Stewart—Classics, Lieut.-Col. in the War ; Blunt (“ Hebetem ”), Modern Languages ; Wall (“ Murum ”), English Literature—an enthusiastic botanist; Hight (“ Celsus ”), History ; Salmond (“ Sapiens ”), Philosophy ; Evans (“ Caluus ”), Chemistry ; Shelley (“ Concha ”), Education ; Farr (“ Longinquus ”), Physics, Hector Medallist; Speight—Geology, Curator Canterbury Museum ; Condlifie—Economics ; Gabbatt—Mathematics.
Ode to Infinity. P age 43
“ Sammy Steele.’ S. Steele, Professor of Mechanical Engineering, 1922. Pre viously, lecturer.
“ Percy.” Professor J. P. Gabbat
Song of the Sport. p age 50
The C.U.” The Students’ Christian Union.
PART 11,
The Passing of the Forest. Page 57
W. P. Reeves, N.Z. University Scholar, 1874. Published in conjunction with G. P. Williams in Christchurch, “ Colonial Couplets ” (1889), “ In Double Harness ” (1891), and “ New Zealand and other Poems ” (London, 1898).
The Lawyer’s Bride. p a g e go
These verses in “ H.V.H.’s ” best Tom Hood manner were first published in the Otago University Review—at a later date in “ The Green Bag,” the leading magazine of the American Bar. It was sung by the author on many occasions ; in particular at a dinner given by the N.Z. Law Society in Wellington to the late Sir Joshua Williams, P.C. The verses are full of allusions, technical expressions, and “ Terms of Art ” in the legal profession— most of them reasonably familiar to laymen. Most business men, during the “ slump ”in prices, have learnt to their loss the meaning of “protest for non-acceptance” ; a few, we fear, the more sinister significance of “ attachment,” “ distress ” and “ execution,” though the Chief
129
NOTES
Editor hopes few of them have had occasion to “ Tax the Bill ” of their solicitor. It seems necessary, however, to explain to lay readers a few of the allusions : “ C.A.V.” curiam advertere vult—“ refer to the Court ” —to be found at the end of the “ argument ”in every Law Report. “ Six Carpenters ” refers to the leading case (A.D. 1610. 8 Coke’s Reports included in “ Smith’s Leading Cases ”) of the “ Six Carpenters ” whose “ trespass” established once for all the doctrine of “ trespass ab initio.” “ Refreshers ” are the fees paid to Barristers for “ extra days.” “ Voluntary Waste ” —This bright pun is an allusion to the equitable doctrine of “ voluntary ” and “ permissive ” waste by a “tenant for life” or years. “ Seisin ” —possession. “ Embracery ” —the crime of attempting to bribe the Court.
Saturday Night. Page 63
Mary Colborne-Veel from “ Fairest of the Angels and other Poems.” Published in England, 1894.
Spring Fires. Page 67
Jessie Mackay. “The Rangatira’s Lament and Other Poems” (Melbourne, 1889), and “ Poems ” (Christchurch, 1891).
“The Grey Company” was included in “The Jubilee Book of Canterbury Rhymes” (1900), and pronounced by the London “ Spectator ” the finest poem in that volume.
Onawe. Page 69
Dora Wilcox, “ Verses from Maoriland.” (Geo. Allen, 1905).
The story of Onawe is thus told in the Rev. J. W. Stack’s “ Kaiapohia ” : —A few days after the fall of Kaiapoi, Rauparaha set sail in his canoes for Akaroa Harbour. It was his intention to take the fortress Onawe and so complete the destruction of the Kinsfolk of Temaiharanui. The fortress, situated on the Peninsula that runs into the harbour near Duvauchelle’s Bay, seemed well-nigh impregnable ; but Rauparaha resorted to stratagem. Accompanied by the most distinguished of his Kaiapoi prisoners he approached the gate and invited the defenders to surrender, promising quarter and pointing to his Kaiapoi prisoners as proofs of his clemency. During the parley, the gates were opened to admit a band of warriors returning from an unsuccessful skirmish ; a number of Rauparaha’s men crept up unnoticed in the crowd and slipped in unrecognised. Once in, the work of killing began ; the defenders were panic stricken and in a few minutes Onawe was a shambles.”
One by One. Page 76
Johannes C. Andersen, Librarian of the Turnbull Library, Wellington, “ Song: Unsung ” (Christchurch, 1905).
130
NOTES
Rectius Vives.
Pags 79
This and the next ode are from “ The Odes of Horace in English Verse,” by W. S. Marris (Oxford University Press, 1912). Marris was junior and senior
scholar and graduated B.A. at Canterbury College in 1892. He afterwards entered the Indian Civil Service where he won distinction, and is now Sir William Marris, K.C.1.E., Governor of the United Provinces.
A Time Will Come,
Page 82
Arnold Wall. “ London Lost and other Poems ” (Christchurch, 1922) ; has also published “ Verses of a Colonial Professor,” “ A Century of Sonnets,” etc.
Pantoum of the Plug,
Page 86
It seems necessary to explain that a Pantoum is a Malay form of verse patented by Mr. Austin Dobson. In the four line stanza the first and third and the second
and fourth lines rhyme. The second stanza repeats for its first and third lines, the second and fourth lines of the first; its own second and fourth are new ; and these are in turn repeated as the first and third of the next stanza, and so on. The whole concludes by returning on itself, the first and third lines of the first stanza appearing as the fourth and second of the last.
Laudabunt Alii. Page 91 A. E. Currie. “ Anthology of N.Z. Verse ” (with W. F. Alexander), 1906. This poem is not included in the writer’s own anthology, but has appeared
in “ The Call of the Homeland,” “ Collections of Australian Verse,” and other anthologies.
The Reformer. Page 93 “On the Road to Muritai.” 0. N. Gillespie (Auckland, 1919). Most of Gillespie’s work appeared first in the “ Sydney Bulletin.” Non Omnis Moriar. Page 99 T. E. Currie died of wounds at Anzac, July 22nd, 1915. Hougomont, 1815. Page 103
For this fine poem the author, Philip Carrington, was awarded the Chancellor’s Medal when at Cambridge University in 1915.
Short Stop. Page 124
“ Short stop ’( is the name of a particular form of Chinese verse, of which this is an imitation.
Tu Ne Quaesieris. Page 126
F. W. Haslam, Professor of Classics, 1879 to 1912. The Editors regard it as a happy circumstance that they are able to end this anthology as they began it
with a product of classical scholarship : omen, they hope, of the permanence of
the classics—utilitarians notwithstanding—in the curriculum of the University
174
fRINTED BY WHITCOMBE AND TOMBS LIMITED CHRISTCHURCH
A Jubilee Anthology of Verse and Prose
Produced by Members of Canterbury College, 1873-1923.
With an Introductory Essay on the Literary and Dramatic Activities of Students of Canterbury College during its first half-century.
EDITED BY O. T. J. ALPERS.
Subscribers' Edition. 175-200 pp. Demy Bvo.
Handsomely Bound in Cloth-Vellum, with Frontispiece and full
list of Subscribers' Names. Price 21 Shillings
Popular Edition. 175-200 pp. Demy Bvo
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Price 6 Shillings
Postage 6d. per copy extra
WHITCOMBE ® TOMBS LIMITED.
Auckland, Dunedin, Christchurch, and Wellington, Melbourne and London.
CANTERBURY COLLEGE,
Christchurch, March ioth, 1923.
Dear Sir,
Madam,
The Jubilee of Canterbury College is at hand. It will be celebrated, one hopes, with all the enthusiasm the occasion should call forth : gatherings of students, past and present, addresses by Dons and “ Revues ” by undergraduates, sports and pastimes, processions and “ gaudies,” will fill a happy and interesting week.
But the Jubilee must be marked also by something of more permanence. It is proposed therefore to publish an anthology—a selection of prose and verse written by members of Canterbury College in its first half-century.
To past students the volume will make a strong appeal, from the topical interest of some of the selections alone. In whatever year they were “Up ” they will meet in the book something reminiscent ; verse, literary jeux d'esprit of the Dialectic Society ; echoes of the ambitious days of “ legitimate ” drama in the last century, or of witty “ Revues ” in this ; incidents of University contests or happenings on the old clay court; here and there an episode recalled, a memorv retouched.
But we dare to assert that most of the work in the volume will have a high literary value also. A goodly number of our students have attained a recognised place in Letters ; one calls to mind the novels of H. B. M. Watson, Edith Howitt Searle, Alfred J. Buchanan ; the verse of W. S. Marris, Johannes Andersen, Hugh Northcote. These names one recalls first because their volumes are on our shelves. But much, and some of the best work can be found only on loose sheets of Diploma Day Songs, in the pages of College Magazines, or in the “ Olla Podrida ” contributions still resting in MSS. in “ The Old Tin Box ” of the Dialectic Society.
The volume will open with an introductory essay dealing with the literary and dramatic activities of the College, not a “ critical appreciation,” still less a bibliography—rather a causerie in reminiscent vein. It has been decided that, save in exceptional cases, each writer will be represented by one selection only. If this lessen the literary standard of the volume it will add much to its topical and historical value, because so many more names will be included.
There will be a frontispiece, an etching of Canterbury College ; we hope to be able to include other illustrations.
A Sub-committee of graduates has been appointed to edit and produce the anthology, Miss Herriott, Miss Wilson, Messrs. H. Von Haast, T. W. Cane, J. H. E. Schroder and O, T. J. Alpers. As the last acquired some special experience on publication of his anthology, “ The Jubilee Book of Canterbury Rhymes,” in 1900, it has been decided to appoint him Editor-in-Chief.
The Editors deem it absolutely necessary to have the volume ready for circulation on the date fixed for the Jubilee, May nth—lsth, 1923 ; the work will necessarily be done under great pressure by Editors and publishers alike.
We appeal to you therefore to send at once to “ The Editors. Jubilee Anthology, Canterbury College,’’ anything yon may have that you deem suitable for consideration by them, newspaper clippings, magazines. Diploma Day song-sheets or MSS. Send anything, your own or the work of an absent or too-modest friend, that you think interesting. It will be carefully read and considered. Write your name on each Page sent and enclose a stamped and addressed envelope for return.
I here will he two editions published
(i.) A Subscriber’s Edition, 175-200 pp. demy octavo, handsomely bound in a selected cloth or vellum. Ihe number of this edition will be strictly limited to the number of copies subscribed for. In front of the
volume will be published a list of subscribers ; each numbered copy will contain a certificate by the Editor verifying the number of copies to which the edition is finally limited.
This special subscribers’ Edition will be published at one guinea.
(2.) A Popular Edition, same number of pages, illustrations, etc., but in a simpler cardboard binding. Price, six shillings if ordered before April ist, otherwise 7s. fid.
If the editions contemplated are subscribed for or sold these prices will yield a substantial profit.
The whole profit will be handed over to the Committee engaged in collecting funds for the beautiful Memorial Window to be placed in the north wall of the College Hall to commemorate the students of the College who fell in the Great War.
Messrs. Whitcombe and Tombs Ltd., the firm so closely associated with the College throughout its history, will be the publishers. They will take a very special interest in the production, and we may feel assured that the volume will be as to printing and binding an artistic memento of the Jubilee of the College.
This circular is sent not only to students of Canterbury College and to some graduates of sister Universities, but also to a limited number of men and women in Canterbury who, while not members of the College, regard its foundation and history as closely bound up with the story of Canterbury Settlement. \\ e shall welcome their names on the list of subscribers as an earnest of their interest in our University.
Make up your mind at once.
The subscription list cannot be kept open later than April Ist. Please therefore fill in the appended form and send it to the publishers forthwith.
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Please place my name on the List of Subscribers for the Subscriber’s Edition of the proposed College Jubilee Anthology, and send me when it is published cop , for which I enclose £ (21s. per copy). or
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Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/books/ALMA1923-9917504473502836-College-rhymes---an-anthology-of
Bibliographic details
APA: Alpers, O. T. J. (Oscar Thorwald Johan). (1923). College rhymes : an anthology of verse. Whitcombe & Tombs.
Chicago: Alpers, O. T. J. (Oscar Thorwald Johan). College rhymes : an anthology of verse. Auckland, N.Z.: Whitcombe & Tombs, 1923.
MLA: Alpers, O. T. J. (Oscar Thorwald Johan). College rhymes : an anthology of verse. Whitcombe & Tombs, 1923.
Word Count
29,886
College rhymes : an anthology of verse Alpers, O. T. J. (Oscar Thorwald Johan), Whitcombe & Tombs, Auckland, N.Z., 1923
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