Verse Old and New

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 1, 4 January 1908, Page 34

Verse Old and New

Domestic Storms. Irate as mate of a troublesome craft (My nominal rank’s commander), I think her daft, both fore and aft, When certain storms would land her. I hate to state, as this craft’s good mate, That the family is aboard. lie’s bright, all right, our midshipmite, And when it blows—oh, Lord! Says he to me, when “ all at sea ” In a China hurricane, “ Why don't you bend a spanker, pop? She’s broke my head again. “ Oh, take her out of stays,” he prays, “ We’re on our beam-ends now! Oh, cut away her rigging, dad. And reef that throat-rope—wow! ” Alas! a spanker can’t be bent, As he the spankee knows. Both he and 1 can't clew her down Short-handed when it blows. I rate as mate of a troublesome craft (My nominal rank’s commander). Knocked fore and aft, I, too, am daft When I get a bad back-hander. —Walter Beverley Crane. © © © The Unattainable. 1 am the Unattainable, the golden boal that gleams Beyond all reach in waking hours, yet very near in dreams; My fingers frame the rosy tints in summer’s sunset skies And light elusive fires of love within a woman’s eyes. I am the sea of space which flows between the shores of time, The snow-robed heights of melody which none may ever climb; I give to men ambition’s wine that with each eager breath Their hearts, made strong, may strive for me from manhood until death. My arms are whiter than the snows, my eyes deep seas at rest. Sweeter than sleep to wearied hearts the softness of my breast; I am a Queen of Goddesses, a maiden, heavenly fair, For me men strive eternally and die in their despair. By Edgar Heane. © © © A Modest Man. Ah me! Too late to regret. The echoes answer back “too late”; It is no use to weep and fret, She is not meant for me by fate. My fond love now is but a ghost Where once it was exceedingly bright; I asked for her sweet hand by post; My rival called himself that night. Alack! The thought now gives me pain, Why did I write on love's behalf? I’ll not propose by post again; Next time i’ll telegraph. © © © Would Yon? If you were a zephyr and 1 were a rose Besiue some cottage door. Would you know me while in thick hedgerows Grew a thousand roses more? , If I were a daisy and you were the sun, Unfurling the dawn’s sweet light, Would you kiss me, and me alone. When my sisters were all in sight? If I were a clover and you were a bee, Out seeking for honey-dew, Would you seek me when over the lea Myriads beckoned to you?

J. W. Walsh,

The Bright Side. Life, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower will make the roses bloom, Oh, why lament its fall? Charlotte Bronte. © © © The Farther Hills. The clouds upon the mountains rest; A gloom is on the autumn day; But down the valley, in the West, The sudden sunlight breaks its way— A light lies on the farther hills. Forget thy sorrow, heart of mine! Though shadows fall and fades the leaf, Somewhere is joy, though ’tis not thine; The power that sent can heal thy grief— And light lies on the farther hills. Thou wouldst not with the world be one If ne'er thou knewest hurt and wrong; Take comfort, though the darkened sun Never again bring gleam or song— The light lies on the farther hills. —Richard Watson Gilder. © © © Suffering. I’ve suffered from the toothache, And an earache I have had; Cucumbers, too, have given me A pain I thought was bad. I’ve had my share of suffering, To leaven nature’s charms; But I’ve known nb' meaner agony Than just two sunburned arms. I’ve gone through all the tortures Of a felon and a boil; I’ve had a burning fever And a cannon’s quick recoil Has singed my face and whiskers; But these were merely charms To the torment I have suffered With a pair of sunburned arms. © © © 'Wisdom. Line upon line, a little here and there, We scrape together wisdom with slow care. Wherefore? To blossom in a churchvard rose, Or to go with the spirit if it goes? © © © Persistent. A broken-down singer named Squires Wrote thus to a half hundred choirs: “Have you place I could fill?” They reply, “No,” but still — He inquires in choirs in quires. © © © Childhood’s Estate. A terror wild. This naughty child, a kicker and a squirmer. When it bit her hand Its aunt cried, “ Land! ” And grasped the terror firmer. © © © Utility. There was a man in Atchison Whose trousers had rough patches on He found them great, He’d often state, To scratch -his parlour matchison. © © © Yes, Machin. A ewe who had swallowed a drachm Of Paris Green, said to her rachm, " I’m going away, But as long as yon stay, Please, dearest, be kind to our lachm.”