Verse Old and New

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 18, 29 April 1908, Page 46

Verse Old and New

Ballade Triumphant. The papers speak of awful-things They do in Russia far away, Of massacres and murdlerings., And "pogroms” almost every day; It makes me sad to think that they Should thus abuse the Hebrew meek — I’d weep were 1 not far too gay; We’ve got a cook who’s stayed a week! Cruel Fortune IwAls a thousand slings Which she is prompt to IS piay, No line she draws ’twixt boors and kings. Tn fact, prefers the boors, they say; To Orkus each his debt must pay, The Stvgian realms must. trembling seek — I’d weep were 1 not far too gay; We’ve got a cook who’s stayed a week! One parting song the robin sings, The minstrel gives his final lay, Ami love itself at last his wings Doth spread and leave our heaven grey; The bravest ship that sails the bay Holds somewhere, sure, a hidden leak — I'd weep were 1 not far too gay: We’ve got a cook who stayed a week! L’ENVOI. I cannot dwell on sorrow, nay! Nor let a tear defile my cheek—• At present 1 am far too gay: We’ve got a cook who stayed a week! William Wallace Whitelock. © ® © Ballad of Slush. The "pomes” of passion, love-sick verse, The silly sonnet, maudlin lay, The Swinburne rhyme 1 used to nurse In quiet on a summer’s day; .The word of fire, pronounced “fi-ah,” "(Elizabethan scansion’s way), * The hot old stuff of my “dlesi-ah”— Where is the slush of yesterday? “The lilies and the languors,” oil!" "The hot wan wine of love,” per se, Charles Algernon. 1 want to know "The hot, sweet throats” of that old Faustina, Dolores, and Felise, Hermaphroditus, o’er the way— What tenderloin did lie police?— Where is the slush of yesterday? Byronie verse I used to write, (Don Juan my model every way), The school boy efforts, my delight, (Anacreon I copied, aye); The Ella Wheeler Wilcox song 1 studied in the twilight gray. To what dim past do all belong? When is the slush of yesterday? L’ENVOI. Erotic poets, ye arc not The kind to live for aye and aye, Ephemeral your dreary rot — Where is the slush of yesterday? Walter Beverley Blane. © © © Tour Perversions. The motor flew, the dust did, too, T he tyre followed free! ’T was not the first that ever burst, Nor was it silently! (Coleridge's “Ancient Mariner.”) Motors, w hen t hey hoot and hum, Vibrate in the cerebrum! Odours (unlike* violets) .thicken In tin* dusty air, and sicken! (Shelley’s “Music when soft voices die.”) Come and play* "bridge,” Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may, I, with three more to help me, Will hold ennui at bay! (Macaulay’s "Lays of Ancient Rome.”) Tin* elo'e-s had been wash'd, just wash'd in an hour, By pert Mary Ann. a new maid. Regardless in wringing, anti boasting her power. The* collars anti cuffs were all frayed! [(Cowper's "’lhe Rose had been wash'd.”) —L. W. s>tom»,

Why Not? The verse you write You say is written; All rules despite,, But not despitten. The gas you light Is never litten. The things you drank Were doubtless drunk; The boy you spank Is never spunk. A friend you thank But never thunk. Suppose you speak, Then you have spoken; But if you sneak You have not snoken. The shoes that squeak Have never squoken. A dog will bite, Likewise has bitten, With all his might, But not his mitten. You Hy your kite, But not your kitten. © © © Once in a Lifetime. It was a pitiful mistake, An error sad and grim. I waited for the railway train; The light was low* and dim. It came at last, and from the car There stepped a dainty dame, And, looking up and down the place, She straight unto me came. “ Oh, Jack,” she cried, “oh. dear old Jack! ” And kissed me as she spake; Then looked again, and frightened, cried, “ Oh, what a bad mistake! ” "I said. “Forgive‘meTmaiden fair, For I am not your Jack; And as regards the kiss you gave, . “ I-’ll straghtway-give it * back.’’ And since that night I’ve often stood Upon that platform dim, But only once in a man’s whole life * Does such things come to him. “ The Traveller.” ©SO The Garret. Our skyscrapers shoulder The clouds in the dawn And yet from our buildings The garret is gone. Gone leisurely graces Il held in its hoard; What sentiments happy, What treasures it stored! Old love-letters yellowed And faded brocades Were mingled with slippers And old rusty blades. The rain-drops madte music, Not tears and a sigh—■low that is my notion Of mansions on high. Where tender romances Live freshened for aye — In fact, one vast garret That covers the sky. McLandburgh Wilson. © © © A Maid. t God keep thee asthou art, So pure, so sweet, so fair, — A fount of waters in thy heart To nurture gladness there; Thy soul irradinnt in thy face, Thy hand as gracious as its deeds of grace. God keep thee as thou art. That doubtful eyes may see How good and pure in every part A mortal maid may be; Thy peace and love prevailing still, Thy word and deed as stainless as thy will. -Arthur L. Salmon.