Select Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 39, 21 October 1871, Page 17

Select Poetry.

THE SONG OF THE HOUSE. With fingers weary and worn, With brain too muddled to think, A reporter, screwed up like the letter Z, Sat plying his pen and ink; — Write, write, write, Till the last dim vestige of nous Seemed fading away, when, in savage spite, He sang “ The Song of the House.” Write, write, write,. Till the brain begins to swim ; Write, write, write, Till the eyes are heavy and dim. It’s Oh ! for the diggings again, To sink and drive like a Turk, Though schicers abound on and under [ground, If this is reporters’ work. Write, write, write, While members are braying below; Write, write, write, While the red lamps hotly glow. Clause, and schedule, and bill, Bill, and schedule, and clause, With motions and orders—a jumbled mess, — And this they call making laws. Oh ! members of Parliament, dear ! Just think of my children and wife, Not only his patience you’re wearing out, But your humble servant’s life. Work, work, work, A reporter on the staff— Writing, at once, on his dingy slips 1 A report and an epitaph ! But why do I think of Death, In his shadowy realm afar ? Though rather unpleasant, he’s not such a bore As a chattering M.H.R. And how they do chatter, by Jove! My temper I scarce can keep ; Oh, God! that their sense should be so rare, And reporters’ brains so cheap. Work, work, work, In phonographic lore; And what’s the result P —those asses below, They only bray the more. If the public really knew The nonsense their members prattle, They’d fancy the House of Reps a pound For other and similar cattle. Work, work, work, In the dreary winter night; Work, work, work, When the weather is warm and bright Bill, and schedule, and clause, Clause, and schedule, and bill; Till reporters are sick, as they well may be, But those patriots battle still. Work, work, work, From weary chime ; Work, work, work, As prisoners work to crime : I’m not selfish ; I feel for a few of the men Who put brains in the work they do ; Yet must list to a Murray, a Creighton, a Reid, Or the member for Wakatipu. Oh! but to breathe the breath Of a baccy pipe, short and sweet, With my smoking cap on the top of my head, And my slippers on my feet! For only one short hour, To feel as I used to feel, For a blaze at the birds, or a burst With Jim Hills, * To make me relish a meal! For only one short hour, A respite however brief, A glass of ale and a draw at a clay, To give me some relief. A little liquor would ease my heart j I’ve tried it, and so I know j But I’m wanted again to report those men, And gallerywise I go. With fingers weary and worn, With brain too muddled to think ; A phonographic automaton Sat plying his pen and ink ; Work, work, work, In dreariness nothing can rouse, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, So bothered he “ didn’t know t’other from which,” He sang the “ Song of the House.” Metis. THE FETTLE DRUMMER’S SWEETHEART. With flying bells the steeples reel, The city roars and gleams like fire With horsemen plumed and clad in steel, With high-born dames in silk attire. The maid hath donned her Sabbath hood The clerk hath clasped his ponderous tome, The woodsman’s axe rusts in the wood— The great Earl comes in triumph home! The warders from the wall behold Vast dust pierced through with martial lights, Great sheaves of spear-heads, helms of gold, And banners of an hundred knights. “ Oh! hasten ; ’neath the old stone gate We’ll take our stand, and see, my girl, The brilliant escort pass in state— My kettle-drummer and the Earl. “ Oh! you shall see his splendil steed Shake blood-red plumes and mane of white ; His mighty sword—true friend in need, And load-star in the van of fight! And yos shall see him proudly wear, Like some barbaric iron crown, His helm all plumed with floating hair, Long as a charger’s, bright and brown. " And you shall see his stately form Decked in the broidered cloak I wrought, To wrap him from the angry storm--To blaze—a banner—where he fought! But, hark! I hear the kettle-drums Come throbbing, throbbing, throbbing, girl j They glitter round him as he comes, They thunder round him and the Earl! * Formerly huntsman of the Heythrop hounds

“Ho ! welcome home ! for here they pour, The archers leading thro* the gate ; Four hundred strong and deep by fours, They march with quivers full of Fate! In cadence to their even tramp The bearded arrows rattle and ring : Hail Pythians of the Saxon camp, Green-coated like the leafy spring ! “ The Bellman next; and splendid sight, Behind a blazoned standard flaps Above the portly Barons dight In robes of silk and velvet caps! And then the raiment rich and quaint— The Eastern raiment of the priests ; The golden statue of our saint; The smoking censers of the feasts : “And next the monks, austere and pale, In fleecy white or sable garb; The Templar locked in Persian mail; The Herald on his milk-white barb. The Earl is coming ! see he towers Above the hedge of gilded spears : His banner crowned with leaves and flowers, Floats high above his chevaliers. See here, too, stricken with disgrace The captured flag behind the Earl!” Her heart leaped flashing to her face. “ Here are the kettle-drummers, girl!” She looked she saw—saw not! No wail Of woe; one sob, the first and last Broke from her heart, as blind and pale She fell. The kettle-drums had passed! * William Canton.