THE SWAGGER AND THE SONG.

Otago Witness, Issue 2006, 4 August 1892, Page 37

THE SWAGGER AND THE SONG.

Weary and sick with my long tramp, Hungry and faint, footsore, I knocJc'd, to ask a bite and rest, At the first wayside door. There, waiting for my simple meal, I heard, as in a dream, A girl's young, fresh, unfalt'ring voice Singing the quaint old theme :— " Good news from home, good news for me, Has come across the deep blue sea, i rom friends that I have left in tears, From friends that I've not Been for years ! " Some sixteen thousand miles away, Some thirty years ago, My mother usd to sing that song — Ah, little did she know How far her boy would wander, then, From her dear love apart — And bow the sound of her old song Would pierce him to the heart :— " Good news from home," &c. She sang it as she mov'd about Amid her household cares, We heard her softly crooning it Up our steep attic stairs ; We youngsters often mimick'd her, Nor, in our thoughtless play, Dream'd what a spell those words would prove On some far future day :— "Good news from Rome," «fee. AVhat would /give give for "news from home," From those who long have lain Boneath the churchyard mould, untouch'd By earthly strife and pain ?— What would I give for but one word , Writ by a long-lost hand, 1 o brighten up my loneliness In this far-distant land ?

" Goods news from home," &c. Some food was brought to me, but all My hunger was forgot ; With daz'd and misty eyes I stood Enchained to the spot. And when— awaken'd from my dream — At last I mov'd away. Th?t song puisued me clown the road, And haunted me all day :—: — " Good news from home," &c.

— Wych Elm

Inch Valley, July 1592.

SONNEf.

A golden year ! Spring's flow'rs first grace the earth, The early crocus and fair daffodils ; Then Summer's fragrant gorse makes sweet the hills, And earth is deck'd with gems of countless worth. Next, the wariu-tinted Autumn's boist'rous mirth With golden grain and fruit the garner fills ; Last— Winter's sunsets, gilding frozen rills, Complete the pile. Of God's own gold no dearth ! Yet men with down-bent looks still pass thro' life, Groping and struggling in the mire for gold ; • Not caring whom they trample in their naste, Nor ever lifting eyes in their mad stiife To see around them, riches vast, unfold, Nor train their souls, this living wealth to taste ! — George I. Ford.