POETRY OLD AND NEW.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LII, Issue 15975, 21 July 1915, Page 10

POETRY OLD AND NEW.

TO LORD KITCHENER. When the thankless and the foolish Talk their folly by the mile. When they criticise your doings. You tan well afford to smile. For their backs are to the sunshine. And their faces in the shade: They would criticise their Maker And everything Ho made! On with your noble Duty— Put your heel upon their spite: We can't afford to lose you. Wo know you'll do the right. On with your quiet, calm Duty, _M'Hi of great, though humble mind; You've 11 million supporters For a dozen of that kind. Some would do_ your duty for you. Do it better far, they say; But there''-, not a man in England We'd exchange for K. of K. — (Mrs.) B. Tf.tlow, in the Yorkshire Weekly Tost. THE HUNS, 1915. Debauched, and drunk with blood and hate, A breed for crime athirst ; The ninie of •• German " has become An insult, most accurs'd. Grim._ ravening tigers, hunger mad, 1 hat furious, mangle prey Are not so bestial, pitiless, With ghoulish glee, as they. Xo breed of wild barbarians. No hydrophobic dogs, Have ever rivalled half the deeds Of these primeval hogs. The beasts that wallowed in their slime •J.°. higher code e'er knew ; Ins damns " The Huns " a thousandfoldIliey do know what they do. Their crime will never be forgiven While lime and tide shall be. ", n 7 m "" name will blackened stand In lonely intamv. —W. J. Kino. Whitley Bay. IN LAST YEAR'S CAMP. They stole the gorse's glory, they scared the loals at play. They yearned lor Tipperary on every woodland way, Their tent peaks pricked the dawning their busies shook th-> dew. While the encamped Division became the men we knew. The tents were struck at twilight, the pipers skirled a cry. The stars came out in Heaven to bid the lads good-by? That night they took the Old Road, the straighten road that runs, Deep with the dust of armies, and graven by their grins. Xow tentless lie the moorlands, the glades most lonely are : But still the russo' ponies stand solemnly afar; And still I think they hearken, and know the sound of men — The marching tramp of heroes we shall not see again. Xow leave we to its glery the camp of yesterday. Vex not its echoes lightlytheir souls may come this way. The lads who cut the bracken when beechen leaves were red. And. ere the cuckoo's calling, were England's Deathless Dead.' —M. Adair Macdokald.