Verse Old and

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 20, 19 May 1909, Page 71

Verse Old and

Mendez, n. ZqVBE looked at him. Her ej.ee were SjiL steely gray, Nothing at all the woman had to say; •No comment, no objection did she deign; With perfect calm she let the man explain. No anger—not the least—did she display. He made a poor endeavour to be gay de he proceeded, hiding his dismay, Striving, hie self-possession to regain, She looked at him. Ah, well he knew that vainly he would pray Forgiveness for his failure to obey, lie wilted like a flower wanting rain, He shrivelled and collapsed beneath the strain. Yow would not wonder had you seen the way She looked at him. © © © The Afflicted Cue. With anguish dire he seem’d to move— He’d scarcely power to speak; But t’was not unrequited love That made him quiet seek. The gorgeous rooms, th’ assembly gay, Could yield no joy to him; His thoughts, alas! were far away, His eyes look’d sad and dim.

•Twas not ambition’s thwarted schemes, ’Twas not a friend far gone, Nor memory sad of early dreams, That made him look so wan.

It was not hate, or rage, or love, Or jealousy, or scorn; H’s anguish flintiest heart would move, A tight boot pinched his corn!

Amor linmortalis. Where are the lovers who long, long ago Mocked at Death’s menace with a line disdain. And looked beyond the terror and the pain, Scorning to cringe before the last dread woe J Have their undaunted spirits passed below Into a silence where all loves are slain, And weary spectres haunt a lonesome plain Whence light has vanished and where chill winds blow? Nay, all who strove to cherish Love’s white flower Have won ealm peace and freedom from distress; Tristram and Iseult share a happy bower Deep in the farthest isle of Lyonnesse; And on some shoulder of God’s holy hill Immortal Dante loves his Beatrice still. Bennett Gould. © © © The Sew Girl. At last we have a- brand new girl; She's stayed for three whole days, While her perfeetione we behold With wonder and amaze. She doesn’t care for company, Nor want an evening out— In fact she quite prefers them in, There isn’t any doubt. Suburban life she doesn’t mind, An oct, we think, of grace; Nor does she say a word to us About her previous place. She never answers back to us, No matter what we say; The jewel’s name? We’ll scarce decide Before the christening day.

Teddy the Centaur. Would you have a composite of human endurance. Gallantry, deviltry, swiftness, and grace, Chivalry, poetry, dash, and assurance, Heaven-born genius for setting the pace. Take all the horsemen in fable and history. Heroes who’ve galloped afield and afar, And you’ll have a receipt for that popular mystery Known to the world as the peerless “ T.R.” The heart of Quixote, the humour of Panza, The wisdom of Odin, the nerve of Fitzjames, (To whom might be fitly devoted a stanza If fable and fact were not bursting with names) r The four sons of Aymon, Orlando, Lord Mannion, Bonny Dundee with his bonnet a-toss, The Cid, Boabdil, Tam O'Shanter, Prince Charmian, The Lady who cantered to Banbury Cross, Sir Lancelot, Rinaldo, and Young Lochinvar; — Take and distill ’em—the issue's “T.R.” The eye of an eagle, the voice of a stentor. Swiftness of Mercury, thunder of Jove. The seat of Tod Sioan, and the head of a centaur, All are combined in the hero we love. Barbaric front of his namesake Theodori. Wildness of Turpin who straddled Black Bess, Daring and dash of the Highlander Roderick, Buffalo Bill and the Pony Express;—• Rake all the past for the bold and bizarre. Lump ’em together—the mass is “T.R.”

The beauty of Siegfried the mythical Norseman, Swagger of Gilpin, the devil may care,

The valour of Roland, the horn-blowing horseman, Grace of Godiva, who rode in her hair; — The Noble Six Hundred, the Valkyrie ladies, The Ghent to Aix riders, the French cuirassiers, The trio who'd gallop from Paris to Hades To rescue a damsel,—the Three Musketeers; — Arab and Mameluke, cossack, vaquero, Riding cap, helmet, fez, shako, sombrero, Hero and jockey highwayman, hussar — All of them Jive hi our peerless “T.R.” © © © My Machine. Rich men are tooting around to-day In their machines; Six-eylindered demons of red and gray Are their machines. Mine is smaller and not so fast, But it always gets me there at last, And perhaps some day it will take me past The big machines. Many’s the land I have travelled through On my machine, With many a stalwart man and true On my machine. Lovers a-inany, in sorry plight, On roughest road and darkest night I’ve carried safely through storm and fight On my machine, I've speeded on Afric’s sandy shore On my machine, I’ve heard the Arctic breakers roar On my machine. The Alps and Andes heights I’ve sealed; Through every continent I’ve sailed; ' At never an obstacle have I quailed On my machine. Time and labour are easy to save On my machine. The work is plain (and the errors grave) On my machine; Put just the same I hammer along, Putting the R’s where the E’s belong— Please, Mr. Editor, buy the song From my machine.