Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVI, Issue 13, 29 March 1911, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Those Old- Songs. I CANNOT sing the old songs!” Her voice rang sweetly clear; It filled my heart with happiness, It calmed my,every fear. “I>cannot sing the old songs!” Gadzooks! But that’s all right ! For these are those she used to sing From early morn till night: ‘‘Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?” “School Days.” “Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet.” “I’ve Got Rings On My Fingers.” ‘‘Garden of Roses.” “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.” “Yip-I-A<ldy-I-Ay!” “That Mesmerizing Mendelssohn Tune.” “What’s the Matter With Father?” “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” She cannot sing the old songs As in the days of yore—I’m glad of that; I’ve heard them all, Ten thousand times or more. She cannot sing the old songs! . What rare, good luck, by gee! They may be dear to some folk, but They are not dear to me! <s><•><•> The Aviator. O God! To have the world below our feet! To mount, and glide, and soar, and looking down Upon the little men that dot the street, And all the tiny tracing of the town; For once to measure with an infinite span The little things of earth, from heaven’s great height, And thence to view the works and ways of man, And judge their values with a clearer sight! O Joy! to race the winds, and hear them singing,

To cleave the clouds, and spring, and swoop, and rise, And on and on in the infinite up-wing-ing With throbbing pulse, and sun-confronted eyes! To soar, alone, above, in the immense Blue freedom of the sky, where time and space Dissolve in joy of motion, and the sense Of power outruns the little earthly race Of creeping men—O God! what joy of fine New being this! Shall not our race grow fair, \\ ith powers like these? Greater, more free, divine? From kinship with the all transcending air? —By Lilliam Sauter.

The Glories of the World. Ah! the glories of the woild, ami the joy of things; They are calling, they are calling, "Will you come?” All the passionate enchantments, anil the magic of its spells, Hear the madness in the music as the rapture sinks and swells; See the colours' flaunting bravely, as the banners are unfurled; Will you mingle in the Pageant as it sweeps across the world? For they are calling, calling, calling, All the glories of the World. Ah! the pities of the woild, ami the tears of things, They are calling, they are calling, “Will you come?” In the darkness of the cities you can hear the spectres sighing, Behind you in the blackness you can bear the wounded crying: Will you mingle with the victims and the fallen in the fight? Will you leave the crowd of courtlings, will you march into the night? For they are calling, calling, calling, The pale pities of the night. —J. W, FEAVER.

Rational Rhyme*. If spelling is to be reformed. Pronunciation should be, too. If printers all be chloroformed. And writers taught to write anew— Then poets ought to do their part, Nor under these restrictions chafe. And exercise their gentle art. While sipping coffee at the cafe. A rose would smell as sweet, we’re told, Tho’ ehanged its name by innovation, And Caesar be as brave and bold Tho’ Kneser were his appellation; Ulysses none the less'had shown The suiters that they could not cope With him, although his .wife were known To all the world as Penelope. ’Twere easy thus io -multiply Examples of a change in rhyme, Tho’ doubtless purists will decry Such usage'as linguistic crime But for me, I merely smile, ’Tis thus 111 rhyme my songs and odes— And if you do not like my style / You may go to the antipodes. —William Wallace Whitelock' After the Summer. Broke! Broke! Broke! By thy sad gray sands, O sea! And oh! for the shining shekels spent That will never come back to me. Ah! well for the hotel man, And the bookmaker, chipper and gay, But alas! lor my wad of early June, T'>”« bno •-.upHhed like mist away. <s><•>❖ To a Child's Mummy. Thou shriveled leaf upon the stream of Time! These thin, small feet once played on Nilus’ sands. How sound you’ve slept in your straight swaddling bands , That tears once wet. Queen Cteopatra-’s prime. Is yesterday to thine. The world's grown drunk with crime , Since then. And Pharaoh’s dread commands

Are hushed,. and men build empires i* new i lands. Not.wars, nor tumults, broke thy peace sublime. ” , . These small, fiaril hands were chubby, enee. You kissed Your mother’s cheek, and laughed—and when you died, She, poor Egyptian, hung o’er you and cried, And hugged the empty breast where you were missed, As we do now. Change } priest and < ucharist, But Death and Sorrow changeless as the .tide. Charles Erskine Scott Wood.

Concessional. Guard of the Motor, Great OhaulFeur, Master of every road and way Who renders useless curb and spur And drives to madness roan and bay, Oh, Goggled .Magnate, sptire us yet, Lest we upseit, lest we upset! The t uiniilt and the “honk-honk” dies, 'The Plutocrats and Snobs depart, And little heed. the. sacrifice Of one-tiine-hoHoured horse and cart. And round tha Curve Another yet, LeaL/up w® get, lest up we get. Horn-Warned, our courage melts away, Within our cowed hearts sink the fires, Our horsemanship of yesterday i Is vanquished by exploding tyres. Oil Skilled Mechanic, spare us yet, Lest we upset, lest we upset! it <hiered lev vistas clear, we loose Wild longue cha* , )(( | Theo in awe, Such boasting as Equestrians use Who cannot speed beyond the law, Relentless driver, spare us yet, Lest we upset, lest we upset! ! On simple hearts that put their trust ’ln tireless,steeds and brake ears light, And, valiant, bravo the fumes and dust To learn that only might makes right, On these poor, harmless amateurs Have mercy, oh, Ye Great Chauffeurs! —Ethel Walker.