Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 40, 28 October 1871, Page 17

Poetry.

PARLIAMENTARY SKETCHES (By Silyer Pen.) THE PERMISSIVE BILL. “ ’Tis very hard, and so it is j” ’Tis also somewhat slow, That man should be deprived of beer, Whether he will or no. What does it boot, that some dry folks Are sick of the “ vile stuff?” There dwell long thousands on the earth Who have not had enough : And where’s the harm, I’d like to know ; A pipe and glass of beer Smooth well the ruffled temper * When feeling somewhat queer. While sitting in the gallery, Where oft I sit of late, I chanced between my nods of sleep To hear a grand debate ; A member rose ; we’ll not him name, It would befit us ill; But this the burthen of his song — “ Pass my Permissive Bill.” He said (at least he so implied), 44 Look, gentlemen, at me, My health is good, my body stout, My eye gleams bright and free. I never falter in my speech Which flows both sharp and clear; And why ? Because I water drink, And hold in horror beer! I come to ask my brothers’ help, - To check with me this evil, Which will the colony engulph, And send us to the devil! That gnome, who, with his cloven foot, His black arid curly tail Stands at the door of “ Osgood’s” house And pledges you in ale. What does it boot that men who drink Do wearj&ttire quite new; They do more evil in thei** way Thau England’s drunkards do. For in thut country, at the rate Of £3 3s per head, They drink, but here what adults leave Babies imbibe instead.” Now I from out the gallery Endorse this in a fashion, For my small boy just rising three Will break on ale his passion. If beer is on the table placed, And he no share has in it, He’ll fling his cup right in your face, And hurt you in a minute. The member grew quite eloquent, Soft bis words were like “ sawder,” When on his feet a rabbit got, And called out, “ order, order.” Think you, said be, that should’l send For wine, or beer, or brandy, To any of the publicans That might be living handy, Think you that wife of mine would dare In accents far from funny, To put her veto, or her vote, Against the will of bunny. No, no, I thank my lucky stars, I am not yet a Mormon,

But one who dearly loves good cheer, A Briton, not a Norman. Now, sitting in the gallery, I laughed in my bell sleeve, Because, between us, reader, They said I don’t believe. Water may suit that gentleman, He having weak digestion ; But that it equally suits all, Is quite another question ; And if they stop the public beer, The private people will Sell for a silver coin a cake, And also your glass fill. If men determined are to take What brings them to perdition, The bill will only rile them more Because of opposition. For first as Eve the apple took, Because it was forbidden, To endless tirae-so men will drink Sooner than be “ bill” ridden. But if the House and Ministry Would build some pleasant places, Fitting them up with tea and books And girls with pretty faces, To wait upon the ennuiel youths Who idly walk the street. I do not doubt these efforts would A good return soon meet, And as you cannot force a dog To eat, when he don’t choose it, The more you take from man his beer, The more you’ll find he’ll use it.

THE LAST OF THE FRENCHMEN. Her pride abased, her glory dimmed, fair France had fallen low, And sued in vain for mercy from her strong and haughty foe; While far and o’er all the land the spoiler’s track, was seen, And wasted fields and cities showed how fierce his wrath had been ; And high to heaven there went a cry, a mighty sound of woe— The cry that wrings a nation’s heart when all

is lost below, When strength hath failed and hope is gone, no sign of succor nigh, And home and friends and fatherland in helpless ruin lay.

She sought amongst her gallant sons for one to heal her woes, For one strong man with heart and brain to cope with all her foes ; Alas! the men of former times who once upheld her sway, Who, first inciences art, and arms, have held the world at bay, Whose conquering legions swept the earth and spread her glory far, From south to north, from west to east, the arbiters of war— These men were gone, last of their race, a grey old man appears, To spend for France his waning strength and few remaining years.

With tear-dimmed eyes and bursting heart the aged patriot stood, Amidst the wreck of all he loved, mid scenes of fire and blood ; Where’er he gazed appeared the signs of deep and lasting woe, The havoc wrought on prostrate France by her rentless foe, And by her own degenerate sons, whose patricidal strife, With awful courage filled the land and crushed its rising life. While friends and foes, aghast, beheld the most stupendous crime, That e’er since days of Cain, defaced the blood red scroll of Time.

“Father Supreme,” the old man cried, “ spare this unhappy land, O for thy tender mercies sake restrain thy red right band ; Thy judgments, Lord, are now abroad, they press our children sore, Beneath thy strong afflicting hand we cannot bear much more, We owned thee not in prosperous days, nor sought thy guidance just. In wav and glory, fame and power, we placed our highest trust, Now stricken from our pride of place we humbly bend the knee, Help of the helpless ! God of heaven ! at last we come to thee.

Save us from cruel foreign foes from Cain-like civil strife. O save us from the sins and crimes that sap our nations life: The land we love is desolate, our pride and strength are gone, O help i:s, Lord, to build again the alter and the throne. And lead this suffering people now thy countenance to seek, Not blinded by vain human pride, but penitent and meek ; So may our ruined fatherland from out its ashes cold Arise a fairer, purer France, more glorious than of old.

To stem the flood of ruin vast that o’er the nation comes, To cheer our many breaking hearts and desolated homes ; To lead our chiefs and statesmen, all the people high and low, To dwell in peace as brethren should united here below ; To raise again tin's fallen land and place it high once more, To Bhine among the nations as it shone in days of yore ; For this alone I wish to live, for this I fain would die. Then help me in thy mercy, Lord, with wisdom from on high. J. S.