MAORI WOMEN.

Otago Witness, Issue 2254, 13 May 1897, Page 43

MAORI WOMEN.

II.— KEI'AL Faith, where's she gone — * She of the laughing eyes 1 Here but a breath ago, How like a bird she flies. There, did you say ? Yeb, that'B the same. Is she not full, divine, Perfect ami feminine ! (Her face is not amiss — 'Twould bear a kissBut, lord, her form, forsooth 1 She's got no waist !) . How blithe her eyes look back } (One of them slightly black As from her spouse's whack — I'll swear she's wed ) Ami when she speaks, the whole Kisence of love sounds undenied. (Well, little wonder, for, upon my soul, Her mouth's three inches wiae !) Blark how her bare feet peep Like little stars of morn Out of the clouds that creep. (Yes. I'll admit she's pretty feet And sof c small hands ; But what a garb !— a hat to make one weep, And dirty white laca skirt, ail torn.) Oh that I could, In her speech musical, Tell her how I were fain Ever to thus remain !From towns exiled, Nor them recall, If she but smiled And was mine own •" (£ say, old chap, beware Where you look and how. I think that fellow there That's scowling now Ib owner of yon charmer brown. So from your dream 3 come down, And, in the language of the town, Move on I ") - May 1807. —J. Athelet. WAITING. 0 love, I am weary of waiting Alone on this grassy hillside, While o'er the green beds of the sleepers So slowly the moon-shadows glide. And yet 'tis a chamber of splendour, Where robed iv my beauty I lie ; On my coverlet diamonds glitter, My curtain's the star-spangled sky. There is music above and around me, Played sweet by the tremulous breeze, The soft, plashing ripple of waters, _. The hush'd, sighing whisper of tree*. But 0 ! lam weary of waiting, I am tired of this scenery fair ; The moon that gleams bright on the waters Fills me with a darker despair. 'Tis fal^e when they say I am wasted And worn by the tooth of decay ! Death chilled but the light of my beauty, And hurried in silence away. 1 am pale as the mist on the mountain, I am cold as the midwinter snow ; , But come thou and break my enchantment With the touch of thy lips on my brow. The bat he shall shriek thee a welcome Beneath the dark cypress so tall ; And the owl he shall solemnly greet thee, And the raven that broods on the w&ll. Ob, come then, and fondly I'll clasp thee And lull thee to sleep on my breast ; The winds may blow hauntingly o'er thee, But thou shalt dream on with the blest. April 1897. — H. J. B.