VERSE OLD AND NEW

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 17, 27 April 1907, Page 26

VERSE OLD AND NEW

The Man Who Makes Epigrams. Cft pests that blight the one that’s •’bright I” you'll hud the worst of all. He thinks his forte Is small talk And his talk indeed is small. lie boasts he’s not ”a Bromide.” That his wit Hows fresh and free, An<l h’s very free and very fresh, If you arc asking inc. His talk is small. Ids voice is large, Tie brings the subjects round So he may say how "the other day” He said a thing profound. He "fairly does on epigrams” And says “such cutting things” - At lease he says he says them, Hut doubt to us still •dings. But best we d *ike his cutting words lie says were Ids retort. If he’d make them still more cutting and forever cut mem short. "Cincinnati Enquirer.” © © © A Song of Content* fin ’ CCI I ",H. tllE lh,, "K hts t] jnl savour vt conThe quiet mind is richer than a crownVt ’ spent- thC ’" ShtS - in . ‘'“‘Tl'-ss slumber The poor estate scorns Fortune's ancrv frown. " s J Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. The homely house that harbours quiet rest J he cottage that affords no pride or care, Jhe that ’grece with country music The sweet consort or mirth’s and music’s fare. Obscured life sets down a type of bliss; A mind content both crown and kingdom if. — Robert Greene. © © © Tachion Note from Battersea. [My John Burnt*; appeared at the opening ©f Parliament in a new tail coat.] Time was when the member for Battersea swore By a •.’reefer,”, well tittipg and neat; A‘ proper costume he considered it for The Lord of the L.C.C. fleet. He’d inake his appearance in garb of this kind . Whate’cr the occasion or place, Till a certain Court function instilled in his mind -Ar. insidious craving for lace. Now lace is not worn by the average males Except upon festival nights, Ke. in hi* quandary, he thought "What of tails. With braid down the thingummytites?” And though at the moment, the notion he’ll scout Of abandoning "bowlers” or “pots,” A credible rumour is getting about Thai he's ordered a "topper" at Scott’s. So completely. 1 hear, to this fad lie’s succumbed That visions of scarlet ho weaves, W bible his newest ciiryclo, is terribly t hiimhed At the page headed "Strawberry leaves.” And it's hoped, (if abortive their efforts have proved Who belabour the Lords with a will) That soon we shall read that "the motion was e.ovtd By the Marquis of Lavender Hill.” From “London Express.” © © © A Dream of Socialism. Th. community man took his weekly pay, And he sought the community store. And community grub for one short day lie sent to the family door; And when he got home he sat down t‘> )*ut Ihe dining room echoed and rang - F«-r he had Io take his community sc.it With the talking community gang. 0 hen he went upstairs for a quiet snooze But the noise did Ids oar drums nag. F«j a community crowd with community Had work'd up a community jag; H«» adown th. stairs he ran straightway, As if he were on greased skids. But he stumbled and fell, orc he got away, < • er a buucli of community kids. F«. ho sought the community telephone. And ho summoned his wife thereto, Oqe word he said, one word alone - And that was the word "Skiddoo!” B«1 his wife I went y-threed and they sought them nut A place where In peace they’d be, And he said: “Let community boosters •* Shout - ißolapph will do for me:” ‘Denver Republican.**

Times Go By Turns. The lopped tree in time may grow again. Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck In some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course. From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. Th«» sea nf fortune doth not ever flow. She draws her favours to the lowest ebb. Her tides have equal times to come and Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web. No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in line amend. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring; Not endless night, yet not eternal day; J hf’, birds a season find to sing. The roughest storm a calm may soon alIny- . 1 hus, with succeeding turns. God tcmpcrieth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross’d; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys hero to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath nevey all. ROBERT SOUTHWELL © © © To Right the Wrong. Were 1 this city’s over-lord As hut this humble serf am I-— Mere 1 this city’s over-lord 1 would ride forth with naked sword And slay its hearties* wrongs, or die! Were I this city’s arm’d chief, And chief in something more than name, My a inn should rob it. of its grief And choke from it its crying shame. No toiler th" , n should cross its street With aching arms and tired eyes dim; While fashion’s full-fed horses’ feet Should fling the highway’s filth on him. No weak one, weary from his toil, Should spend his miserable dole’ In loathsome dens where spoilers spoil To gain the price that sells a soul. No women, loyal in their love. Should wait outside those poison’d barfl <’hill’d and heart weary, while above Gaze mockingly the wanton stars. No hungry little child should stand With pale lips’press’d against the pane Looking on a forbidden land Of food and warmth- were I to reign! No girl should walk those pitiless streets In the curs’d mart of open shame, God witness! If this poor heart beats With manhood worthy of the name. W< I this city’s over-lord, As but its lowly serf am I, 1 would ride forth with naked sword And slay its heartless wrongs, or die! Will H. Ogilvie (in “Britannia”!. © © © They Never Return. Umbrellas strayed from clubland’s halls Come back, though not in silk; The man who gocth out tn balls Rotiirneth with the milk. The swallows come again with spring. That flit when summer’s spent; But all the seasons fail to bring Me back the books 1 lent. My senses strayed when Celia smiled, Because her eyes were black: But now. no more by love beguiled I’vc got them safely back. My In art 1 gave returned to me As lightly as h went; E’en hopes long lost once more I sec, But not the books 1 lent.. All things reiurti; in twilight gray Day dies to dawn anew; The beef that's sent below to-day Will make Ip morrow's stew; 'l'he bill collector ronieth back With covetous Intent, All things, return except, alack! The books that 1 have lent. 'the*' stood in ”Russia" sifie by side, Tfcoy filled one rosewood shelf; They’re now belonging, fur and wide, To any but myself. Oh! take my word, this world of pain Will fiizz.b. l out and end Hef< re you’d ever see again The books the books you lend. —Booklovers’ Verse.