ESSAYS IN VERSE

Evening Post, Volume LXXXVII, Issue 50, 28 February 1914, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE

AT BUMMER'S CREEK. I planted Dave at Bummer's Creek Somewhere in 'Ningty-five, _ When all the country roundabout Was like a busy hive — And good bldkes pegged like rotten ehoep, And waster^ stopped alive And here to-day I'm t'ilin' still Beside theaame old soak, Where wo pitched our camp twelve years agone, Played-out and stony-broke; And after work I think right baok, „ And smoke, and 6moke, and smoke. We two were fitted, j'int for j'int, And toiled and starved and spreed, But ono'd watch around the stamp When t'other ono was treed, Tho same when Luck was in full bloom As when she run ter seed. But now I'm getting old and hipped, And kick against the ruts, I often think I'll havo a pray, But can't get down for nuts — And Dave *u<l say, a prayin' pea Has never got no guts. D'ye think it's true, this 'ere report That parson blokes kin tell As who is bound for parrydise, And who is booked for 'ell? For I've got dust enough to pay If they've gob noos to sell. V' see, us partners never 'ad Religion much in mind, And didn't think to make no pla^n For 'em .vho stopped behind — But, 'courso you tumble to my graft, I've got no axo ter grind. D'ye think, now, if I went to town, Got up all smart and sleek, A short-necked sha-mmy, jist like that, 'Ud make them pilots speak, And say which track the battlers took Who pegged on Bummer's Creek? Fer Dave and me, we never knoo The rights of any sect, Or 'ow them different pads ens-orosfted, And things in that respect, Or, if we'd heer'd it years afore, We didn't ricollect. I don't say as I'd lift my 'at, And cringe, and beg, and crave, And don't want them to epeechify About no soul to save. ... . But, theer's the dust 1 if they'll pint out Which track was took by Davo. — "Bluobush" (J. P. Bourke). SEA-FEVER. I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall 6hip and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied ; t , And all I _ ask is a windy day with the white cloud flying, And the flung spray and tho blown spume, and tho seagulls crying, I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife ; And all I ask is a merry yarn .from a laughing fellow-rover, And a quiet sleep and -a sweet dream when the long trick's over. —John Masefield. Current Literature.