Identity

It isn't the foe that we fear;
It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns -
It's the MUD,
        MUD,
        MUD.

It isn't the melee we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet -
It's the RAIN,
        RAIN,
            RAIN.

It isn't because we lack grit
We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit;
In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the ...

Day of ending for beginnings!
Ocean hath another innings,
Ocean hath another score;
And the surges sing his winnings,
And the surges shout his winnings,
And the surges shriek his winnings,
All along the sullen shore.

Sing another dirge in wailing,
For another vessel sailing
With the shadow-ships at sea;
Shadow-ships for ever sinking,
Shadow-ships whose pumps are clinking,
And whose thirsty holds are drinking
Pledges to Eternity.

Pray for souls of ghastly, sodden
Corpses, floating round untrodden
Cliffs, where nought but sea-drift strays;
Souls of dead men, in whose faces
Of humanity no trace is,
Not a mark to show their races,
Floating round for days and days.

.    .    .    .    .

Ocean's salty tongues are...

Muse, sing the deeds of golden Aphrodite,
Who wakens with her smile the lulled delight
Of sweet desire, taming the eternal kings
Of Heaven, and men, and all the living things
That fleet along the air, or whom the sea,
Or earth, with her maternal ministry,
Nourish innumerable, thy delight
All seek ... O crowned Aphrodite!
Three spirits canst thou not deceive or quell: -
Minerva, child of Jove, who loves too well
Fierce war and mingling combat, and the fame
Of glorious deeds, to heed thy gentle flame.
Diana ... golden-shafted queen,
Is tamed not by thy smiles; the shadows green
Of the wild woods, the bow, the...
And piercing cries amid the swift pursuit
Of beasts among waste mountains, - such delight
Is hers, and men who know and do the right.
Nor Satu...

[R.B.]


Whilst little Paul, convalescing, was staying
Close indoors, and his boisterous classmates paying

    Him visits, with fresh school-notes and surprises, -
With nettling pride they sprung the word "Athletic,"
With much advice and urgings sympathetic
    Anent "Athletic exercises." Wise as
Lad might look, quoth Paul: "I've pondered o'er that
'Athletic,' but I mean to take, before that,
    Downstairic and outdooric exercises."

Lupes for the outside of his suit has paid;
But for his heart, he cannot have it made;
The reason is, his credit cannot get
The inward garbage for his clothes as yet.

Where roses flaunt beneath some pleasant cave,
    Too charming Pyrrha, what enamour'd Boy,
Whose shining locks the breathing odors lave,
    Woos thee, exulting in a transient joy?
For whom the simple band dost thou prepare,
That lightly fastens back thy golden hair?

Alas! how soon shall this devoted Youth
    Love's tyrant sway, and thy chang'd eyes deplore,
Indignant curse thy violated truth,
    And count each broken promise o'er and o'er,
Who hopes to meet, unconscious of thy wiles,
Looks ever vacant, ever facile smiles!

He, inexperienc'd Mariner! shall gaze
    In wild amazement on the stormy deep,
Recall the flattery of those sunny days,
    That lull'd each ruder wind to calmest sleep.
'T was then, with jocund hope, he spread the sail,

Goddess of youth, and lady of the spring,
Most fit to be the consort to a king,
Be pleas'd to rest you in this sacred grove
Beset with myrtles, whose each leaf drops love.
Many a sweet-fac'd wood-nymph here is seen,
Of which chaste order you are now the queen:
Witness their homage when they come and strew
Your walks with flowers, and give their crowns to you.
Your leafy throne, with lily-work possess,
And be both princess here and poetess.

As slow our ship her foamy track
    Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
    To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loathe we part from all we love.
    From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts as on we rove,
    To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
    We talk, with joyous seeming,--
With smiles that might as well be tears,
    So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
    Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
    To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet
    Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
    And naught but love is wanting;
We think...

Hail! Heavenly Maid, my pensive mind,
Invokes thy woe-subduing strain;
For there a shield my soul can find,
Which subjugates each dagger'd pain.
When beauty spurns the lover's sighs,
'Tis thine soft pity to inspire;
And cold indifference vanquish'd lies,
Beneath thy myrtle-vested lyre.
Oh! could contention's demon hear
Thy seraph voice, his blood-lav'd spear
He'd drop, and own thy power;
That smiling o'er each hapless land,
Sweet peace might call her hallow'd band,
To crown the festive hour.

    It's very disagreeable to sit here in the cold,
    And a sinful waste of time - ah, well, it's too late now to scold;
    I'll think about my sermon and my prayers for Sunday next,
    And the young folks may be happy - let me see - what was my text?
    But what a throng of people - an immortal soul in each:
    With such an audience this would be a splendid place to preach.
    I'd have the pulpit half-way down - what ice! without a smirch!
    Here are the men - I wonder if they ever go to church.
    "The teams?"    Ah, yes, "the forwards, point, and cover-point and goal";
    Thank you, my dear, I understand - is that a lump of coal?
    "Rubber?"    Ah, yes, "The puck?" just so!    One's holding it, I see -
    That fellow with his clothes all on - ah, that's the referee.

Honour, I say, or honest Fame,
I mean the substance, not the name;
(Not that light heap of tawdry wares,
Ermin, Coronets, and Stars,
Which often is by merit sought,
By gold and flatt'ry oft'ner bought.
The shade, for which Ambition looks,
In Selden's or in Ashmole's books):
But the true glory which proceeds,
Reflected bright from honest deeds,
Which we in our Own breast perceive,
And Kings can neither take nor give.

When at first in foreign parts
Was her flag unfurled,
England was a Gipsy lass
Peddling round the world.
Sailing on the Spanish Main,
Everywhere you roam,
Peddling in the Persian Gulf
Things she’d made at home.
Peddling round the world,
Peddling round the world,
England was a Gipsy lass
Peddling round the world.
England never wanted war,
Not on land or sea,
Other nations rising up
Couldn’t let her be.
England only wanted peace,
And the ocean’s breath;
So there came, in course of time,
Queen Elizabeth.
Queen Elizabeth,
Queen Elizabeth,
Came a plain, bad-tempered queen,
Called Elizabeth.

Queen Elizabeth, she called
Drake, and Raleigh too,
Essex, Howard, and the rest
Of the pirate crew;
“See what y...

    The walls don't lack sincerity, here,
    or be accused of "ordinary,"
    what with the bleached remains
    of a carbon skull, a yellowing pike head
    of uncertain girth, adder-like fangs
    positioned like the Bear Head
    gasping for the night air
    one wall over or
    the old pool table
    that's seen as many games
    as ghosts fly by or drinks downed
    in the penumbra Shooters
    flaming elixir stars,
    a shooting gallery of exotica and potent portions -
    crimson Garter, Pink Panties,
    the men in this lounge live up to that
    with cigarettes bullying the air, chortles,
    one doesn't expect to see southern good ole boys
    in the North Backwoods with no 'gators
    or Biloxi Blues but a gallows to good intention...

WHEN the vine again is blowing,

Then the wine moves in the cask;
When the rose again is glowing,

Wherefore should I feel oppress'd?

Down my cheeks run tears all-burning,

If I do, or leave my task;
I but feel a speechless yearning,

That pervades my inmost breast.

But at length I see the reason,

When the question I would ask:
'Twas in such a beauteous season,

Doris glowed to make me blest!

To break one's word is pleasure-fraught,

To do one's duty gives a smart;
While man, alas! will promise nought,

That is repugnant to his heart.

Using some magic strains of yore,

Thou lurest him, when scarcely calm,
On to sweet folly's fragile bark once more,

Renewing, doubling chance of harm.

Why seek to hide thyself from me?

Fly not my sight be open then!
Known late or early it must be,

And here thou hast thy word again.

My duty is fulfill'd to-day,

No longer will I guard thee from surprise;
But, oh, forgive the friend who from thee turns away,

And to himself for refuge flies!

God gave us an hour for our tears,
One hour out of all the years,
For all the years were another's gold,
Given in a cruel troth of old.

And how did we spend his boon?
That sweet miraculous flower
Born to die in an hour,
Late born to die so soon.

Did we watch it with breathless breath
By slow degrees unfold?
Did we taste the innermost heart of it
The honey of each sweet part of it?
Suck all its hidden gold
To the very dregs of its death?

Nay, this is all we did with our hour -
We tore it to pieces, that precious flower;
Like any daisy, with listless mirth,
We shed its petals upon the earth;
And, children-like, when it all was done,
We cried unto God for another one.

Tune - "Mauchline belles."


I.

    O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
        Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;
    Such witching books are baited hooks
        For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.

II.

    Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
        They make your youthful fancies reel;
    They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
        And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

III.

    Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
        A heart that warmly seems to feel;
    That feeling heart but acts a part,
        'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

IV.

    The frank address, the soft caress,
        Are worse than poison'd darts of steel;
    The frank address and politesse
    ...

    "And when the Summer Heat is great,
    And every hour intense,
    The Moghra, with its subtle flowers,
    Intoxicates the sense."

The Coco palms stood tall and slim, against the golden-glow,
And all their grey and graceful plumes were waving to and fro.

She lay forgetful in the boat, and watched the dying Sun
Sink slowly lakewards, while the stars replaced him, one by one.

She saw the marble Temple walls long white reflections make,
The echoes of their silvery bells were blown across the lake.

The evening air was very sweet; from off the island bowers
Came scents of Moghra trees in bloom, and Oleander flowers.

    "The Moghra flowers that smell so sweet
    When love's young fancies play;
    The acrid Moghra flowers, still sweet