VERSE OLD AND NEW

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVII, Issue 22, 1 December 1906, Page 22

VERSE OLD AND NEW

When Dorothy Went to Town. When Dorothy went to Ixuuioti Town. In her Sunday hat and her Sunday gown. Which, till then, she had thought so tine, you know, And :i liottlc of cowslip wine, lieigho! With her rosy cheeks and her sunny locks. Her home-made jam and her homemade - frocks, Some new-laid eggs in'a bonnet-box-— When Dorothy went to Town! When Dorothy went to London Town, In her simple hat and her simple gown, Though her eyes and complexion won praise, you know’. They laughed at her countrified ways, hcigho! And taught her to dress and coquet anti smile. To do her hair in the latest style—▲nd this and more, in a little while. She learnt when she -went to Town. When Dorothy said “Good-bye” to Town, In a smart new hat and a smart now gown. There was hardly room in her l»ox, you know, For her ribbons and frills and frocks, height*! .White the innocent heart I had thought was mine. Was left with the bottle of cowslip wine— And the sun has .suddenly ceased to shine Since Dorothy went to Town! —A. L. Harris, hi ‘'Ladies’ Realm.” ‘ ft $ ft 0 & I J Some Day. \ ' , j He’s not at all distinguished, hut ■Yen want to wait awhile and see. .When once that fellow leaves the rut There’s nothing that he couldn’t be. He’s in a rather humble place. But that's not where die means to stay. He means to strike a swifter pace * And move up to the front — some day. Just now he hasn't liad tils chance •T<» show the world what he can do. There’s so much adverse circumstance T< .keep his j>Jans .from going through. But time will” bring his opening . Aud clear the obstacles away. He’s merely . crunching for the spring. You’ll sec what he will do — some day. He’s getting past the (Tush of youth, At times we think he’s lacking steam— Some people say. .io . fe*l the . truth. He’s less'dls|M»s*ed’to do .than dream. But he has faith tlint’s fresh and green. Although his head is getting gray. His hope’s sublime, ids faith’s serene, lie means to do a lot — some day. ft ft ft ft $ A Fable from Nature. A nightingale wooed, in a garden green, Tlip loveliest rose that ever was e»ecn. And he sang for her. with ’his wilding art, The tremulous pin hit : of: a wistful heart. •‘Dearest nightingale.” saijl the litlte rose, ••Such a wonderful gift, your songs disclose, That I long for this worfd to share with me Tliv magical charm of your melody.” The nightingale thrilled with a joyous pride As Jie flew to the tree-tops far and wide--And plaintive.and tender and sweet he sang, Till .the whole green earth with his praises rang. But the rose n<» echo nor tidings knew. And paler and frailer each day she grew; Yet. bravely she answered the jeering rain—- “ Nay, hush! for my love will come back again.” When the first wiki joy of his song was spent. The nightingale back to the garden went: • Dear rose. I have brought you my fame! * he said. . * But no answer came—for Hie rose was dead. ft « ft ft ft The Auto Speed Maniac. ? Hr scorched upon Iho highway. I He s<-or<*h( ; d hpoh the street; He scorched away from rivals. I He scorched his friends to meet; He scorched in pleasant weather. He scorched when It was hot: ' • He scorched- when races asked It. t He scorched when- they did not; i At last/his iioek hA broke it, | When scorching on a bet; ’Ami for all that .you or I know. He may be arching yet. r 0 ft ft ft ft A Waif. A P<»et dreamed me; but he woke, And with (he slumber-thread Of Memory, ‘ the morning broke. And, 10. the vision fled! Henceforth a homeless wanderer 1 It is *my fate to be. *• Till Memory of things tint were i RecloUic and shelter me. •-By Juba B. Tabb.

How to Make One. To build a neat ballade like this (Pronounce the word “bah-lahd,” you know*. You can’t go very far amiss If you construct the thing just so. We ll take, to end this line, “bestow,” Or any other word in sight. Whose rhyme and rhythm smoothly flow: Ballades are easy things to write. Now let your word be “precipice.” It sounds all right. We’ll let it go. Then here, perhaps, a sounding kiss May be succeeded by a blow. Now watch your blooming poem grow. Your Pegasus is in full flight—• But this, somehow, suggests a “whoa!” Ballades are easy things to write. Then next you try the word “abyss,” And follow it with “overflow ”; Lug in some reference to bliss. Or something as to Cupid's bow. Or “marble brows.” of “driven snow.” The process thus you expedite. This sort of thing is not so slow— Ballades are easy things to write. L’ENVOI. But here you’ve got to stop, although 'Twerc easy thus to grind all night The object merely is to show Ballades are easy things to write. : ft ft ft ft ft The Song of the Open Road. Eerily the winds are calling, sweeping Inward from the bay. Where the long white line of breakers meets the sky-line far away; And the great, gaunt, ghostly headlands rise so naked, bare, and brown, With the mighty sweep of moorland and the splendid reach of down, Gohlen gorse and- purple heather, shining stretch of yellow sand; Call of petrel far to seaward, cry of bitter*! from the land; •Wilderness of thorn and thistle, windswept dune and stunted tree: Flash of white wipg. • cry of sea-fowl, breath of’ blossom,* hum of bee. These and thousand thousand voices call me forth, and I must rise. Wander out upon the moorlands underneath God’s naked skies. So I lay aside my burden, daily’ work and dail.v load, t ■ And 1 hearken to the voices calling to the open road! - --By Tom Quad, in “Chambers’s Journal.' ft ft ft ft ft Chains. Hr lives across the street from us Ai? ain’t as big as me: His mother takes in wasbin’, cuz They're poor as they can be. But every night he brings his slate An' ’en I do his sums. An’ help him get his lessons straight, ’Cuz him an' me is chums. His clo'es ain't quite as good as mine, But I don’t care for that: Ills mother makes his face 'lst shine, An.’ I lent him a hat. An' every niorniti'. ’lst by rule, Wen nine o’clock it comes. He takes my hand an' goes to school, ’Cuz him an’ me is chums. Nobody better plague him, too. No matter if he's small. ’Cuz I’m his friend, fur -tried and true. Au’ ’at’s th' reason all Th’ boys don’t care to plague him, cuz I ’ist wait till he comes. An’ he walks by me. he does, 'Cuz him an* me is chums. He fell an' hurt hi'self one day The summer before last. An' ’at's w’at makes him limp 'at way, An’ don’t grow very fast. So w’en I got a piece of pie, Or maybe nuts or plums. I always give him some, ’cuz I Get lots —an’ we are chums. An' w'en it’s unitin' dime, we go, An' I climb all th’ trees, ’Cuz he can’t climb—he's hurt, you know-* But he gets ail he sees C<»mc droppin’ down. an’, my! he’s glad; An’ w’en th\ twilight comes He says w’at a fine time wo had, ’Cuz him an' me is chums. But. my! his mother’s awful queer; •Cuz w’en we’re home again. Slip wi|*es her eye—a great, big tear—* An’ says: “God bless you, Beu! Th’ Lord will bless you all your days W’en th’ great Judgment comes.” But 1 H>- I don't uee<l no praise, *Cus him au - me Is chums. r-J. W. FOLET.