POETRY IS PERIODICALS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIII, Issue 13286, 19 September 1906, Page 9

POETRY IS PERIODICALS.

MOLLY'S RESTFUL SUMMER.

When the season's annals Haply are no more. Molly's outing flannels Lure her to the shore. Strolling and flirtation, Molly says, is best; Now for her vacation, Who says, to set a rest!

In the morning early Molly coils her locks. Then she's off with Charley, Scrambling o'ex the rocks; Next she goes a, boating, Always neatly dressed. Actively denoting. .„.., . . She's off to get a rest!

Swimming in the noontime; Walks till half-past four; Dances in the moontime On the sounding shore; Clambakes on the ember; Bivalves won't digest. And Molly, you remember, Is off to set a rest.

When the summer closes Molly homeward streaks— Where are all the roses Once on Molly's cheeks? That, she's rather nervous Peevish lines attest,; Heaven and earth preserve us, She's been to get a rest:

Molly's now reclining In a darkened room. Quilts of eider lining. Curtains shedding gloom; Quiet is the best euro Science can suggest Molly's taking rest-cure. Reviving, from her rest!

Wallace IRWIN, in Munsey's Magazine.

THE TWA CORBIES. As I was walking all alane I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tano unto the t'other say, "Where sail we gang and dine to-day?"

" In beliint yon aukl fail dyke I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that lie lies there But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

" His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate. So we may mak our dinner sweet.

" Ye'll sit on his white hause-banc, And I'll pick out his boonie blue eeu: VST ac lock o' his gowdeu hair We'll thcek our neat when it grows bare.

" Moiiy a one for him makes mane, Hut nane sail ken where he. is ganc; O'er his white banes, when they are bare. The wind sail blaw for evcrmair." '• ANON." in T.P.'s Weekly. SEVEN TIMES ONE. There's no dew left on the daisies and clover. There's no rain left in heaven: I've said my " seven times'' over and over, seven times one are seven. I am old! so old—l can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done: The lambs play always, they know no better, They are only on© times one. O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing, And shining so round and low; You were bright, all bright! but your light is failing. You are nothing now but a bow. O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow. You've powdered your legs with gold 0 brave marsh-mary buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold! O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dw(« ! 0 cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell! And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away. 1 am old. you may trust me. linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day. JEAN INGEI/OW.

WHAT BECAME OF THEM? He was a rat. and she was a rat, And clown in one hole they did dwell; And both were as black as a witch's cat, And they loved each other well. He had a tail, and she had a tail. Both long, and curling, and fine; And each said. " Yours is the fiuest tail In the world, excepting mine." lie smelt the cheese, and she smelt the cheese, And they both pronounced it good; Ana both said it would greatly add To the charms of then- daily food. So be went, out, and she went out. And 1 ,-aw them go with pain; And wli.-t befell ; them 1 never can tell. For thty never came back again. —"Old Fashioned Chymes and Poems," by Mrs. Koudlimgut.