AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1316, 20 May 1897, Page 16

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

ORIGINAL VERSE. TO GEORGE, AGED SIX. (Written for the New Zealand Mail J [By R.L.] Dear little barque, just launched on life's sea, Fresh from the shore of thine infancy ; May favouring breezes fill thy sail, O'er winds and o'er waves may thou bravely prevail; Sailing along may thy lot ever be joy, God guard thee from wreck my own darling boy. Life is a sea of storms and calms, A desert of death or garden of balms ; A field of battle or plain of peace, From birth unto death changes ne'er cease ; Build not on earth your dreams my boy, In heaven alone there is steadfast joy. Cherish the dream of a trustful heart, Though love may fail thee or friend 3 depart; Better to mourn o'er affection's wound, Than bear unto death a heart uncrowned ; With the roses of love, life's sweetest joy, Love glad thee through life, mine own darling boy.

Be a cheering Btar on the ebon sky, Of your bosom friend when sorrow is nigh ; Tenderly feel for another's woe, But iron of nerve when your own griefs flow ; Oh, our own heart's praise is a sterling joy, May thine lead thee wellfmine own darling boy. Worthily bear your Father's name,, Wreath it with sprigs of honest fame j May thoughts of your head or deeds of your S hand # Make it revered o'er our chosen land ; God lengthen my days to taste the deep joy Of your growing fame, mine own darling boy. SELECTED VERSE. WHEN THE SHEARERS GO AWAY. 'Tia lonely on the station when the plains are wet and wide, 'Tis lonely when the plains are dry and brown, You can't be very cheerful when the saddle burns your hide, And ditto when the floods are coming down. We don't feel over-pleasant when the final load of wool Is swallowed up in dust and distance gray ; It wouldn't do to show it, but our pannikin« are full Of sorrow when the shearers go aw3y.

The Bhed is like a graveyard, and but yesterday the din Was deafening—we heard it from afar ; We heard the woolpress rattle as we rushed the stragglers in, And shearers Bhouting "wool away" and " tar " ; The yarder hustling sheep about and" yelping like a hound How earnestly that yarder used to pray And curse, and make his pack-roll on the woolly backs resound ! We miss him since the shearers went away. The silence seems to settle 'mongst the rafteri once again, Forgotten in the days of work and song; And strange, fantastic shadows that we cannot quite explain, s H Depress us like the memory of wronjr. No slush-lamps meet the twilight, the galley fire is dead ; No shouts from lusty throats, not laughter gay ; No groups around the grindstones, no bleating from the shed— No nothing since the shearers went away. When darkness hides the brown and dusty sun-cracked plain from sight. And silent buildings deep 'neath silent stars, We seldom care to wander near the gloomy huts, for night Bring* memories whose presence Bomehow jars ; The shades of last week's revels grin and leer from every crack, And gambol 'mongst the bunks in ghostly pi*y; r . Our hearts beat fast, and faster beat our footfalls up the track — We're nervous since the shearers went away. They left us prematurely when but half the clip v?aa through, In troublous times a year or two ago; They struck work in a body, like a mutineering crew, One evening as the sun was getting low. They said they had their orders " from above " to down their tools, And orders they intended to obey ; We tried how to persuade them they were something worse than fools— • But we cheered them as they elowly rode away,

At times we want to sling the place and travel with the boys From shed to shed, and follow up the Spring, Escape the station silences and share the griefs and joys Of thos9 who take what luck the road may , DrJl! ff; We'd leave the dusty drafting for the mortgagee to do—'Twould do him good to swelter for a'day— Perhaps his death-grip would relax if he experienced, too, Our feelings when the shearers go away. — The Bulletin.