WITH THE BARDIC CLAN

New Zealand Times, Volume XXX, Issue 6557, 27 June 1908, Page 12

WITH THE BARDIC CLAN

Perched hie upon the monarch tree The mavis warble; nmorowdic. Til! v,-i’ the echoes o' his glee The plantain rings. , Yet Tnang the whins, hid frae the e e, Wee Lintie einge—Robert Hogg. THE BRIDE’S WELCOME (County Donegal.) What, cl id you say, was my sister luck comes where the eves are preen.” . . Take that folly an’ turn it etraym , Green is the luckiest colour ecen. Isn't grass green for the eyes to rest Aren't the trees of the same sweet hue? J J , Mind you this, when she starts her jestin’, I'd love you less if your eyes were blue. What wop my little brother shoutin'? “Hair that ’ud match our red cow's tail." XTI bo vritli him an’ slop his flontan , With a kind little word from the tip of n Hail. Ton, with your hair where the sunshine ranae*. Like tho autumn light on the beechen track. Is it me would be wantin’ changes? I’d love you less if your hair was black. ■What was my poor old mother croakin’? “Never a. cow and hens but few/' Widow;. Cuahla, is sore provokin', ’Tis often all that they’ve loft to do. She, with her lamo back, there at her knittin’, Angry with pain, and sad to* be old— Mind you this, when she starts her twiltin’; I'd love you less were you hung 'aith gold. ALICE’ FLEMING. THE STATION DESPAIR W© must trust the conductor, most curdy; Why. millions of millions before Have made this same journey securely. And come to that uUhn-ate .“hove. And wo. wo will roach it in season; And. ah, what a welcome is there! Reflect, then, how out of all reason, To stop at the station Despair! Ay, midnights and many a potion "Of trouble and sorrow have.we, As wo journey from ocean to ocean, From sea unto ultimate sea. To that deep sea of seas, and all silence Of passion, concern, and of core. That vast sea of Edon-set island?— Don’t stop at the station Despair I Go forward, whatever may follow, Go forward, friend, led or alone; Ah. mo! to leap oil in some hollow Or foil, in the night and unknown. Leap off like a thief; try to hide you From angels, all wailing you there! Go forward! whatever betide you. Don’t stop at that station Despair! JOAQUIN MILLER. LOOK DP Look up, • look up, lost thou perchance shouldst mist* The glory of the heavens: the noonday sun. The star-world o’er thy head, the tendor kies Of dawn, the majesty of day begun. Look up with new resolve for other sake Than just thine own. Climb up the mountain steep. Hard-breathing in the wind, that some may iako Fresh heart from thee ere eyes be closed in sleep. Look up! for brave endeavour God doth call. Life ia too short for anything but love; And His great truth for ever for us all Shall light the weary road, heaven’s arch above. Look up, to give to life a nobler worth, And speak high words of cheer when thou shaft find One chance to be an angel on the earth, A benediction to thy suffering kind. Look up 1 What matter if with empty hands Thou comest?—if thou foldcst them to pray Thou givest much to Him who understands Life’s mystery of pain from day to day. Look lip with fearless front, erect o’er strife. Though dark the night and winterly the day. Courage, oh. toiler! let the door of life Stand open wide for Christ to come that way. HARRIET KENDALL. LORDS OF LABOUR, They come! they come in a glorious march! You can hear their steam-steeds neigh, As they dash through Skill’s triumphal arch, Or plunge 'mid tho dancing spray. Their bale-fires blaze in the mighty forge, Their life-blood throbs in the mill. Their lightnings shivers the gaping gorge. And their thunders shako the hill. Ho! these are the Titans of toil and trade. The heroes, who wield no sabre; But mightier conquests reapeth tho blad® That is borne by the Lords of Labour! Brave hearts, like jewels, light the sod— Through the mist of commerce shineAnd souls flash out, like stars of God, From tho midnight of the mine. No palace is t:in i'-s. no castle great, No princely pillared hall; But they well may laugh at the roofs of state, 'Neath the heaven that is over all. Ho! these are the Titans of Toil and Trade, The heroes who wield no sabre; But mightier conquests reapeth the blade That is borne by the Lords of Labour! Each bares his arm for the rinsing strife. That marshals the sons of the soil. And the sweat-drops shed in the battle of life. Are gems in the crown of toll; And prouder their well-won wreaths, I trow, Than laurels with life-blood wet; And nobler the arch of a bare, bold brow. Than the clasp of a coronet. Then hurrah for each hero, although his deed. Bo ujib'owa fey tk« trump er taker; Per kelier, k&ppier Hr » tke n«»d t Tkat rr wnetk tke Lersts ef Labour. JAMES SXACT ARLAN.