Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVII, Issue 21, 22 May 1912, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Up Against the Bars. ©LD King Cole was a merry old soul, A merry old soul was lie! He called for his pipe and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. But only two of the fiddlers came; The third, they said, was barred From earning his living henceforth, because He carried no union card. Nor came the pipe with its fragrant weed Nor the bowl with its golden brew; For all such things had been driven from court By the \V. C. T. U. © © © Sleep. Clothe me in dreams, O sweet, ead wraith of Sleep! Wrap me from head to feet in garments white Of mystic dreams; with stars of radiant 1 igh t Gemmed here and there in these pale clouds that weep! For tired heart, and weary grain doth lea p With one great throb toward the dim Unknown That holds long rest for earth-born sigh and moan. Shroud me in pallid dreams, O ghost of Sleep! Lay your wan fingers on my aching eyes. And bid Life's other phantoms flee away Into the solemn shades that have no day, Where. broodingly, eternal silence lies! Then whisper, soft as moon on frostwreaths hoar, “Dream, worn-out one, dream here forevermore!” —Fanny Driscoll.

The Call of the Child. He haunted the opera house, he'd heard every singer of note, Couhl hum all the trills and cadenzas that swelled from each silvery throat. But when he came to his fireside and Flossie climbed up on his kee And said: “Oh, do smg to me, daddy.” this jingle he’d warble with glee: “Hi diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, The eow jumped over the moon, The little dog laughed to see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.” He entered the Marathon races, he'd met every man of renown. Was in with the runners and boxers the length and the breadth of the town: But when little Jim would invite him to play horse or bull in the ring, The science of sport was forgotten and he'd join and merrily sing: “Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross To see an old woman ride on a white horse, With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes. And she shall have music wherever she goes.” He knew the political Traders, had met the wise men of finance. He watched the men pulling the wires that caused all the puppets to dance: Buf he'd leave a board meeting or dinner if Johnny were sick in his bed. And murmur a song to the laddie as softly about he would tread: “Rockabye baby, on the tree top. When the wind blows the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks the cradle will fall. And down will come babv,- cradle and all.”

He delved into the Obeult and abstract, to science devoted his mind, Would hold very learned discussions with all the wise men”W his kind!, Bdt he’d slyly telt Jenny- and Tommy that the moon was made of green cheese, And say that the roll of the thunder was the storm king trying to sneeze. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses, all the king’s men. Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty, together again.” In the workaday world or in science. Or when men are by pleasure .beguiled. There come times when our hearts are awakened, And we hark to the call of the child. —Cecil Burleigh. © © © The Beggars. Sordid stroller of the street, lives of hunger, shuffling feet, What have 1 to do with thee And thy trailing misery? Take this pittance, turn away, Go thy aimless, angry way. Dull resentment in thy mind Smouldering against mankind. Why, within my secret room, Through the softly scented gloom, By the fireside’s glint and glow Steals the vision of thy woe? Say what wrong I did to thee To endure my misery? —From "Poems of Revolt and Satan Unbound,” by Constant Lounsbery. © © © The Mule. The mule is stupid, so they say; He has no train with which to think; But he can always turn away When he has had enough to drink, No matter if his foolish brother Insists that he must have another.

Whieh 1 t Rieh and fat was the altar-feast '"'For the holy flame that dry; But there in the pool from the slain lamb’s throat A slender body lay. While .the Horror stiffened each lovely limb And kissed the red lips grjiy. Far o'er the desert a shadow flees In the glare of the angry sun; Is it man or ghost or hunted beast, Or sand by the whirlwind spun, f. And why does it run and look behind, And look behind and run? The yellow hair of the white boy-priest Is damp with a ghastly dye; Can he not raise those perfect hands From his bosom where they lie, And why does he stare at the noon day sun With such a fearless eye? He does not smile, he does not stir, But still the shallow flees; It can not lie-that sound is born On such wan lips as these, Yet surely shadows never sobbed In such strange agonies. Across the desert of the world Still stumbles in his pain The Man who killed; and yet, which is file slayer,, which the slain, The delicate-fingered Abel, or The shamed and branded Cain? —Willard A. Wattles. © © © The London Baby's Plaint. Please Father, dear Father, come homo to us now. The clock in the steeple’s run down ! The suffragist ladies have started a row, And smashed all the windows in town 1 And now the dear mother is landed in jail With numerous ladies of note; They don’t care a sixpence for pardon or bail, But they’d break all the laws for a vote ! We babies are crying fur Mother to come; Please Father bring Mother right home.