Loneliness

    Unbroken peace, I ween, is sweeter far
    Than reconciliation. Love's red scar,
    Though salved with kiss of penitence, and tears,
    Remains, full oft, unhealed through all the years.

    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.

Do you wish the world were better?
    Let me tell you what to do:
Set a watch upon your actions,
    Keep them always straight and true;
Rid your mind of selfish motives;
    Let your thoughts be clean and high.
You can make a little Eden
    Of the sphere you occupy.

Do you wish the world were wiser?
    Well, suppose you make a start,
By accumulating wisdom
    In the scrapbook of your heart:
Do not waste one page on folly;
    Live to learn, and learn to live.
If you want to give men knowledge
    You must get it, ere you give.

Do you wish the world were happy?
    Then remember day by day
Just to scatter seeds of kindness
    As you pass along the way;
For the pleasures of the many
    May be ofttimes traced to one,

Tune - "Rory Dall's Port."


I.

    Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
    Ae fareweel, and then for ever!
    Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
    Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
    Who shall say that fortune grieves him
    While the star of hope she leaves him?
    Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
    Dark despair around benights me.

II.

    I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
    Naething could resist my Nancy;
    But to see her, was to love her;
    Love but her, and love for ever.
    Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
    Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
    Never met, or never parted,
    We had ne'er been broken hearted.

III.

    Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!...

A metropolitan rat invited
His country cousin in town to dine:
The country cousin replied, "Delighted."
And signed himself, "Sincerely thine."
The town rat treated the country cousin
To half a dozen
Kinds of wine.

He served him terrapin, kidneys devilled,
And roasted partridge, and candied fruit;
In Little Neck Clams at first they revelled,
And then in Pommery, sec and brut;
The country cousin exclaimed: "Such feeding
Proclaims your breeding
Beyond dispute!"

But just as, another bottle broaching,
They came to chicken en casserole
A ravenous cat was heard approaching,
And, passing his guest a finger-bowl,
The town rat murmured, "The feast is ended."
And then descended
The nearest hole.

His cousin f...

With Apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ("The Village Blacksmith")


Under the spreading deficit,
The Fitzroy Smithy stands;
The smith, a spendthrift man is he,
With too much on his hands;
But the muscles of his brawny jaw
Are strong as iron bands.

Pay out, pay put, from morn till night,
You can hear the sovereigns go;
Or you'll hear him singing "Old Folks at Home",
In a deep bass voice and slow,
Like a bullfrog down in the village well
When the evening sun is low.

The Australian going "home" for loans
Looks in at the open door;
He loves to see the imported plant,
And to hear the furnace roar,
And to watch the private firms smash up
Like chaff on the threshing-floor.

Toiling, rejoicing, borrowing,
Onward thr...

[1]

A fox once journey'd, and for company
A certain bearded, horned goat had he;
Which goat no further than his nose could see.
The fox was deeply versed in trickery.
These travellers did thirst compel
To seek the bottom of a well.
There, having drunk enough for two,
Says fox, 'My friend, what shall we do?
'Tis time that we were thinking
Of something else than drinking.
Raise you your feet upon the wall,
And stick your horns up straight and tall;
Then up your back I'll climb with ease,
And draw you after, if you please.'
'Yes, by my beard,' the other said,
''Tis just the thing. I like a head
Well stock'd with sense, like thine.
Had it been left to mine,
I do confess,
I never should have thought of this.'
So Renard clam...

Here's to a temperance supper,
    With water in glasses tall,
And coffee and tea to end with
    And me not there at all.

Mak th' best on't, - mak th' best on't, - tho' th' job be a bad en,
God bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat!
This world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en,
If we all started rooarin for what we cant get.

Who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet,
Are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess;
Let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it,
'At noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less.

Mak th' best on't, - mak th' best on't, - ne'er heed if yor naybor
Can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave;
Ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor,
An it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave.

Ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit,
'Twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front;
It's noa sin to...

E ach wish, my fairest child, I pen,
F or thee I write with earnest heart;
F or who shall say, that ere, again,
I shall behold thee; when we part
E 'en now the time is near, I start.

H ere are my wishes, then, sweet child,
A long life's pathway may thou go,
R ob'd white, as now, in virtue mild,
R etaining pure, thy virtue's snow.
I wish thee this, and wish thee more,--
S o long as thou on earth hath life,
O h! may thy heart be never sore,
N or vex'd with anxious care or strife!

I drove a golf-ball into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I lent five shillings to some men,
They spent it all, I know not when,
For who is quick enough to know
The time in which a crown may go?

Long, long afterward, in a whin
I found the golf-ball, black as sin;
But the five shillings are missing still!
They haven't turned up, and I doubt if they will.

If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish and anon must die;
If every sweet and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys
Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or if that golden fleece must grow
For ever free from agèd snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What, still being gather'd, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met;
A stole and snowy alb likewise, I recollect it yet.
He called me “daughter,” as he raised his jeweled hand to bless;
And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, “Would I confess?”

O mother dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees
I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise;
Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx,
I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.

The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,
And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct “cheek;”
And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes,
May term his mixed chalice “grog,” his vestments “petticoats;”

But, whatsoe’er they do or say, I’ll build a Christian’s hope

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;
Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and the saint, for it's well understood,
The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,
You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,
Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,
Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses,
Are always divided in just these two classes.

And oddly enough, you will find too, ...

I.

ARIEL.

When in spring the gentle rain

Breathes into the flower new birth,
When the green and happy plain

Smiles upon the sons of earth,
Haste to give what help we may,

Little elves of wondrous might!
Whether good or evil they,

Pity for them feels the sprite.

II.
CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

WHEN the moist and balmy gale

Round the verdant meadow sighs,
Odors sweet in misty veil

At the twilight-hour arise.
Murmurings soft of calm repose

Rock the heart to child-like rest,
And the day's bright portals close

On the eyes with toil oppress'd.

Night already reigns o'er all,

Strangely star is link'd to star;
Planets mighty, sparkling small,

Glitter near...

As with varnish red and glistening
Dripped his hair; his feet looked rigid;
Raised, he settled stiffly sideways:
You could see his hurts were spinal.

He had fallen from an engine,
And been dragged along the metals.
It was hopeless, and they knew it;
So they covered him, and left him.

As he lay, by fits half sentient,
Inarticulately moaning,
With his stockinged soles protruded
Stark and awkward from the blankets,

To his bed there came a woman,
Stood and looked and sighed a little,
And departed without speaking,
As himself a few hours after.

I was told it was his sweetheart.
They were on the eve of marriage.
She was quiet as a statue,
But her lip was grey and writhen.

Take hence the bowl;--tho' beaming
    Brightly as bowl e'er shone,
Oh, it but sets me dreaming
    Of happy days now gone.
There, in its clear reflection,
    As in a wizard's glass,
Lost hopes and dead affection,
    Like shades, before me pass.

Each cup I drain brings hither
    Some scene of bliss gone by;--
Bright lips too bright to wither,
    Warm hearts too warm to die.
Till, as the dream comes o'er me
    Of those long vanished years,
Alas, the wine before me
    Seems turning all to tears!

What dost thou here far from thy native place?
What piercing influences of heaven have stirred
Thy heart's last mansion all-corruptible to wake,
To move, and in the sweets of wine and fire
Sit tempting madness with unholy eyes?
Begone, thou shuddering, pale anomaly!
The dark presses without on yew and thorn;
Stoops now the owl upon her lonely quest;
The pomp runs high here, and our beauteous women
Seek no cold witness - O, let murder cry,
Too shrill for human ear, only to God.
Come not in power to wreak so wild a vengeance!
Thou knowest not now the limit of man's heart;
He is beyond thy knowledge. Gaze not then,
Horror enthroned lit with insanest light!