VERSE OLD AND NEW

Poverty Bay Herald, Volume LV, Issue 17173, 1 February 1930, Page 10

VERSE OLD AND NEW

IF A TRIBUTE TO DON BRA DAI AX (AVith apologies to Budyard Kipling.) If you play the noble game of cricket in such a way as wins a world-wide fame. If you can, like a hero, guard your wicket And all the while add records to your name; If you can bat for hours in sultry weather And never “turn a hair’'’ from first to last, If you can “lay the wood upon the leather ’ ’ AVith a brilliance that has seldom I yam surpassed; If you can block the break balls that are trying To force an op’ning through your stern defence, If you can make the loose ones all go living To knock the jackets o(f the boundary fence; If you can score your runs at one a minute And race along the pitch, mile after mile, And show us all what fun there’s really in it By wearing on your face a beaming smile; If you can give delight to those who are sitting Upon the hill or in the grandstand's shade, If you can make them grow ecstatic by your hitting And demonstrate how cricket should be played; If you can hear the tributes, that men utter And read the words of praise that hosts have said, And never let these things produce a flutter , In your nerve, or make you lose your head: Then surely by admirers you’ll be reckoned Entitled to the glory you have won. An equal, or to say the least, a second ’To one named Bradhian, who’s a Don, my son. —Bernard Deane, in Sydney Sun. ONCE LONG AGO. Once long ago J met you in a crowd; You bowed and touched my liund and spoke my name, I answered with some format! commonplace, And that was all. AVhoro was the spark, the flame, That, romance tells us should have leaped between Your heart and mine? So casual wc were that day That, if we had ndt met again, I might have gone

Ary way, and never known what love could mean. —Floris McLaren. TRANSFORMATION) Unless one meets a friendly face , A city is a cheerless place. An empty sordid vulgar show, Bright oil the surface—dark below. Here is the wreck and wastage sore Of lives God has no purpose for. And ’neath the trappings of success Hide often Greed and Selfishness, While lonely hearts amid the throng Mrive like a sullen tide along. . . . And musing thus I crossed the street. And sudden face to face wc meet. Dear heart the change! Oid Earth grows young. Sweet secrets to the breezes flung, The city deserts burst in flower, Eden reborn one shining hour And all because —Oh magic true. The last street turning brought me—You! —Emily Buleoek. A TIME-WORN TALE. riiev say that Youth is up-to-date; Perhaps! Still, there’s an ancient story; (’Teas threadbare even in the days When Solomon ruled in his glory.) It was a maid of high degree, And rich in all its state might cover Who, smiling, left it all behind To wed a strolling Gypsy lover. You’d surely think that modern Youth , Had something newer to put, over; ’Twas old in Tutankhamen’s time— But done last week—right here in Dover ! —AT.