AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1265, 28 May 1896, Page 12

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

ORIGINAL VEIISF. RUTII TO NA 0 Ml. (Written for the New Zealand Mdil.J Whither thou goest I will go ; Be it to joy, be it to won ; Over tho ocean’s dancing tide, O’er hill and plain s' retched far and wido; Only to bo ever with thee— Whither thou goest I will go ! Whate’cr thou wiliest I will do, I will he ever fond and true ; Whatever ills thou hast to boar, 1 will be near to soothe and share : Only to bo ever with thoc— Whato'er thou wiliest I will do ! Whatc’or thou lovost I will love, In earth beneath or heaven above. Thy friends and kinsfolk shall be mine ; My God be Him thou eullesl thine. Only to he ever with thee— Whate’er thou Invest 1 will love I Frances M. Fames. Waipawa. BELEC TE /> VER SE. THE COFFIN’ - SHIP. By Edward Dyson, in the Bulletin. Do you think that the crow would go to sea without making any complaint?—Yes, they would have to go, for the sako of their wives and children ; in order to get bread, men have to put up with a good deal nowadays.— Eriib'iice, re Ihr u nseuworlhi wsii of ships oewrullr/, lefore a hoard of enquiry in Melbourne the other day. j

Sho may bo an iron cullender, an’ cranky as a rack, With rotten docks an’ rotten plates, or rotten in the bulk, But we’ve got to take her out, my lads; we'll maybe bring her back If our luck is not ez rotten ez this God-for-saken hulk. For the kiddies must be fed, An’ tho missus have a bod, An’ have clothes to hide her bones, my lads a roof to hide her head.

We who man the good old coffin-ship have need of marror bones, An’ good cause to bear in mind tho bloomin’ mission covies’ tex; There’s a tlako ’r two o' rust between our souls an’ Davy Jones, An’ a tidy swag o’ cargo gaily swung around our nocks. When we’re bobbin’ on tho seas, We pray God to hold His breeze, An’ our teeth begin to rattlo when wo hoar a squeaker sneeze.

When wo swing her out, an’ hearken to the lan’sman’s kindly wishes, llo.' it’s so-long to the missus, an’ it’s good-bye, mar an’ par, Ez wc’rc probcrly a-stcamin’ out to picnic with the fishes On a pile o’ perished iron, when it ain’t a blob o’ tar. If she lives to agonise ’Tween the water an’ the skies ’Till wo make a port, we’ll tako it ez another glad surprise.

Sun and moon shine through her scurvy decks, her venterlation’s fair, For she gapes in fifty places when she rises lo the swell. When the sea gets up an’ hits her, then we wait to feel her tear, An' wo wish tho crimson owners was aboard to hear her yell. Yes, wo wish them swells was aft On their crazy, leakin’ craft;, With a ragin’ sea before her, an’ a rousin’ squall abaft. All her boilers spit an’ hiss an’ spirt—they’re cankered up with rust But we’re got to make a livin’, an’ that ain’t concernin’ us. We go downward if she breaks, my lads, or up’ards if they bust — The direction doesn’t matter, an' wo mustn't make a fuss. For the kiddies must be fed. An’ tlio missus have a bed, An’ have clothes to hide her bones, my la Is — a roof to hide her head. THE OLD ROCK ERRING. By Frank Pre-ton Smart, in the Courier-Journal. Under the tall green alders That never let tho sun shine through, With a tinkling drip o’er the rock’s cool lip, The water came down like the dew; And not even the fabled neetar T'liat classic poets sing Did 1 dream could be as sweet to me As the water in the old rock spring. Down by the old rock spring, Where the water-flags uip and swing, There’s never a, draught, wherever quaffed, Like one from the oM rock .qnnng I Down Tnongsl the running gr,r;-;os G lad of the etui l.v place - From Hie hay at morn or t ho noon-hot corn, Full on my eager face I’ve Hung myself to taste it, And never has anything Since slaked my thirst like the halm that burst Fresh from the old rock spring ! Down by the old rock spring ! flow a sip from its lips could bring My boyhood back Tong the once-worn track That led to the old rock spring ! Tho’ I’d Burgundy on my sideboard, Champagne of the rarest sort, Wines of Moselle and Muscatel, And many a pint of Port, Yet I never could forget it, With its brook-like murmuring— The best-stocked bin takes a back seat when 1 think of the old rock spring. Down by the old took spring, There the lichens loop and cling; To give, 1 were fain, all the grapes of Spain For a drink from the old rock spring!