AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Times, Volume LVIX, Issue 3007, 19 December 1896, Page 1 (Supplement)

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

ORIGINAL VERS E. SONNETS BASED ON MAORI TRADITION AND HISTORY. . THE LOST TRIBE, [By J. Liddell Nelly.] Not always do they perish by the sword Who by the sword have lived. A harder fate, A direr doom, an end more desolate Bofol the remnant of one warlike horde. *Ngatimamoo ! From your chiefs a word Was wont to summon all tho woes that wait On warfare —plunder, slaughter, Just and hate. You then wore feared; your name i-s now abhorr’d!

Driven to the wild, inhospitable West, Tho strong tribe weakened; mother, sire and son Fought Gold and Famine—foes that ne’er relented. The last child starved at tho last mother’s breast, Tho last stern warrior laid him down alone, Unsopulchred, unhonoured, unlamontod ! SELECTED VERSE. A HOOSE O’ OOR AIN - . [Bv Wm. Ltle.] O’ a’ the gifts a guid Providence sends, — The flowers, tho sunshine, the rain,—, Naothing comes nearer tho heart o’ a man, Hooo’cr sue simple an’ homely its plan, Than a woo bit hooso o' his ain. There needs nao battlements roon’ its plain wa’s, Nao turrets tonmk’ his heart vain; HoTl no’ miss a big ha* \vi* pictures raro An’ gran’ velvet carpets on ilka stair, Wha prizes a hooeo o’ his ain. True happiness cares na to seek tho great; It looks na far silks in its train ; He’s tnair than a king, his eye is aye licht, Wha thinks o’ nae ill frao movuin’ till nicht, But smiles in a boose o’ his ain. „ Tho wife an’ the bairnies sing a* dny lang ; They never tuk' lime to complain; Nae lanTord tirls at the'door for hie rent; What mair wad ye hae to mak* ye content Than a wee bit hooso o’ yer ain Y Though scant bo oor faro, we raaunna forget Warl’s wealth canpa save us frao pain ; An' beggar or king can claim nothing mair Frao earth at last than mortality’s share,— A woo narrow hoose o’ his ain, , —Horne Journal. IRISH SONG. When Carroll asked Kate for her heart and hand That crotrowled just a hundred good acres of land, Her lovely brown eyes Went wild with surprise, And her Ups they shot scorn at bis saucy demand; * / “Young Carroll Maginn, Put tho beard to your chin And tho change in your purse, if a wife you would win.” Then Carroll made- Kate his most illigant bow, And off to the Diggins lampooned from the plough; TUI tbo beard finely grown, And the pockets full-blown, Says he : “ Maybe Kate might be kind to me now! ” So home my lad came, Colonel Carty by name, To try a fresh fling at bis cruel ould flame. But when Colonel Carty iu splendour steps in. For all his grand airs and great beard to his chin, “ Och ! lave me alone 1 ” Cried Kate with a groan. “For my heart’s In the grave wid poor Carroll Maginn.” 4 ‘ Hush sobbing this minute, ’Tin Carroll that’s in it! I’ve caged you at last, thin, my wild little ■ linnet.” —London Spectator.