STRAY VERSE,

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3358, 26 October 1911, Page 7

STRAY VERSE,

THE DEAD. Who are tKe O&idTT Are they the souls who, questing, forth have fared , ; Through the loos© doora of their frail tenements? Who tarried not for staff, nor,.wine, nor bread. , Who* to the stress of Night their bosoms bared, Despite our bitter tears, our fond laments ? Are they the dead? Who are the Dead? Are they the souls who. from their larger view, . Regard with quiet eyes our foolish ways ? Marvel that we should seek to stay, instead Of speeding them to their environs new? And smile to see the sepulchres we raise? Are they the Dead? Who are the Dead? Say, rather, are not we in full-sensed life, Bound by our sickly fears, our outworn creeds , That strangely speak of faithI—we, 1 —we, who are led Apart from Love, by selfish aims and strife Stifled, enslaved, undone by our misdeeds — Are not we Dead? . —Adeleine Guthrie. —“The Outlook.” NO BABIES. Suppose there were no children. No babies in the land, No toddling, pattering footsteps, No little clinging hand. No sweet eyes looking upward, Like flower petals unfurled, No prattling, lisping voices, No laughter in the world. Suppose there were no babies Drifting downwards from the skies, No toiling and no tending, No maternal lullabies; No hopes built on the cradles Wherein baby forms lie curled, Methinlis ’twould be a desolate And God-forsaken world. —Katherine A. Clarke, in the "loronto Globe.” TO ONE NEGLECTED. Who daily goes his plodding way And totes his load till he is grey, But never asks for price nor pay? Why. Father 1 Who often obligates himself To pay our grinding grist in pelf— Yet sits undusted on the shelf? Poor Father! Who trots the kid at gray of dawn With only his pyjamas on. And never dares to say “Doggone”? Same person.

Who is it never makes a kick But some one hits.him with a brick? Who grins and bears it ,tliin and thick? Our pater! Who washes dishes now and then, And risks the scoffs of lesser men? Who falls, but gets right up again ? The Governor! Who, when this weary life shall end, His way to heavenly rest will wend, And somewhere find a tardy friend? Why, ditto! Hence is this little lyric writ To praise poor dad a little bit — My interest is that I am it! I’m Father! —Henry Edward Warner, in "Baltimore Evening Sun.” SCHOLARS. It is a pity I have, And that is a truth, For the Trinity man And the men of Maynooth. The men of Maynooth are like o "tli© rooks With their solemn black coats an’ their serious looks; An’ the Trinity men are no better at all. , . , , . For when they’re not studym’ deep m their books Their only diyersion is batting a ball, An’ that is a truth. If myself now were there My heart would be broke, For a smell o’ the earth Or a whiff of peat smoke. The weight of their learning would sure have me bet, I’d sell all their books for an old fishing net, And pawn their professors far Danny’s young horse. Och! glory to goodness I’d pine an’ I’d fret For the. mountainy wind an’ the smell o’ the gorse, An’ that is a truth. It’s the old ones that’s there, They’d ask a poor lad To be searching his mind For what knowledge he had. For learning in poaching they’d give me small thanks, Or for tricks to catch trout hidden under the banks, There’s much I could tell them of gyouse and of hare ; But still they’d not bid me to enter their ranks. An’ faith! I’m not wishful to be • with them there, An’ that is a truth. —W. M. Letts. —“Westminster Gazette.” THE MEMORIES OF THE TIDE. The tide is sad with crowding memories Of all its ceaseless wanderings; where leaps " The white cascade, and where the black tarn sleeps, And where the long waves mourn on changing seas.

It chants the plaint, the slow grey death of trees Above its breast; the ambushed death that creeps . , , 'Fierce-eyed, soft-padding m the forest deeps, . , . 7 And frail lives crushed, and strangled melodies.

Coiled by vast towns, by brooding citaIt bears’ the dirges of a million bells, The sick despairs to sudden darkness hurled.

The exile's choked farewells, and strained eyes On ships that climb the far ridge of the world,In fading ,femoke-plumee trailed on sunset skies. 1 —-F. O’Neill Gallagher, in the Daily News.”