\ 
 
Class JPX 
 
 Copight N" 
 
 COPmiGHT DEPOSm 
 
ILilis anb the 
 prince of Sprang 
 a Brama of tbe 
 Sea In five 
 Cantos anb 
 ©tbet Ipoems 
 
 bfijobn Campbell Haswoo& 
 autbot of peter von 
 2>utJ5elsptel an6 ©tber 
 imoo&s above Serious 
 
Cop^tigbt, 1905, bi2 
 John Campbell IHa^woo^ 
 
 
 TS-SS-iS 
 
 LIBRARY yf aCfW'JSEaS 
 fwc Copies Hficaiveu 
 
 ,A<^ feL4- 
 
 
 /^i?t' 
 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 
 Printed by 
 
 George W. Jacobs & Co. 
 
 Philadelphia 
 
BeMcatet) 
 Zo /ID^ mtfe 
 
 *'anD it tells to a lover a stores ot love 
 'TO tbe lover of love lovetb more," 
 
 —Canto IV 
 
Xtli^ an& tbe 
 
 prince of Sptap 
 
 This is the story of Lily, a varied and strange recitation 
 That was told by the waves to the sand bar, who told it 
 
 again to the shingle. 
 And I heard them discussing the matter — the shells and 
 
 the quartz stones and others, 
 In voices attuned to the sea, as I lay in the sunshine and 
 
 listened. 
 
 If you read, you will find it is written in changes of style 
 
 and of metre, 
 For rarely a shell or a stone is exactly the size of some 
 
 other. 
 The voices of sea things are strange, from the boom-ety 
 
 boom of the conch shell, 
 To the wee little song of the tide that lies in the bosom of 
 
 winkle. 
 
 But I know all their language quite well, I love the great 
 breast of the ocean, 
 
 For it taught me the tongues that they speak, the sing- 
 ings, the sighings and laughter; 
 
 And this is the story of Lily, I heard as I lay in the sun- 
 shine, 
 
 Begun by the winkle at noon, to its cousins that lay in the 
 shingle. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 The ripple of tide and the boom of the swell 
 
 Remind me of Lily — a nautical belle, 
 In a very old village that stood by the sea 
 Where the scent of the tar 
 
Of the ropes of coir 
 And other aromas that usual are, 
 (Including the seaweed, the mud and all that 
 With some quite fishy dories that lay on the flat) 
 Made perfect the haven for people who knew 
 The wonderful comfort in sea smell and view. 
 
 Ere the sad tale of Lily continues (the winkle pro- 
 ceeded to say) 
 I must ask that the tittering ceases, of those lobsters 
 and urchins at play. 
 
 Then away from the place 
 
 Where the rest of her race, 
 For all that I know, may be living to-day, 
 To Lily herself, who you'll find from the story 
 Got somewhat mixed up with a fisherman's dory. 
 
 However, the plot 
 
 Though 'tis fishy, is not 
 Just what you expect — for I'll keep the trail hot, 
 As an author must do or he's not worth a jot. 
 
 I felt that the voices had ceased, and I saw that the winkle 
 had fainted. 
 
 (This poor, little bundle of nerves with a touch of the 
 sun had grown tainted) 
 
 So they gave her a draught of ozone, and the yarn had a 
 quartz stone to spin it 
 
 In a tone that was rolling and deep, that carried convic- 
 tion within it. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 Her father, a very old sailor indeed. 
 
 Spent most of his time with a pipe and a weed 
 
 And a musty old log book, an ill-written screed, 
 
 Which told of the how. 
 
 With piratical scow 
 
He had bloodied the sea from the Thames to Han- 
 kow, 
 And never had failed with the rest of his crew 
 In a villainous deed, when such deed was to do. 
 In fact, 'ere he was twenty, the villagers say. 
 He had cut up a farmer and cut down his hay. 
 
 William Bunce (I ne'er knew him so really I will 
 Be a little more formal than calHng him Bill) 
 
 Lived retired, because 
 
 Through his country's good laws. 
 When he fought for three dollars per diem, his jaws 
 Were shot through, and the shot took in some of his 
 
 bristles. 
 And sad dog though he was he'd not answer to 
 
 whistles,* 
 Tho' he often emitted, so people relate. 
 The sound of a lyre. How curious is fate ! 
 
 They gave him a pension 
 
 (With medical mention) 
 To build a small house with a smaller extension. 
 Where he'd gather around him a blood-thirsty crew, 
 And boast of such doings as such doers do. 
 
 It seemed when the quartz stone had stopped, I saw him 
 roll over and over, 
 
 For a wave from the sea had come in, a charge of sea 
 bubbles before it. 
 
 And the round of the stone was his fate, he stayed in no 
 order of going, 
 
 But went at the call of the sea, a waif in the maw of the 
 breakers. 
 
 The hiss of the shingle was weak, when I heard a small 
 voice at my elbow ; 
 
 A pink fluted clam shell was there, who sang the continu- 
 ing canto. 
 
 *Bos'un's whistles — calls on shipboard. 
 
CANTO III 
 
 Lily Bunce was a beauty, there wasn't a doubt 
 She'd have caused quite a stir, had she ever come out ; 
 
 But there wasn't a hall, 
 
 Or a booth, or a stall. 
 Or anything likely to do her at all 
 As a salon, or even so close to the sea 
 Was such a thing known as an afternoon tea. 
 They say that a lady once tried, 'twas a pity, 
 To give an "at home" with some help from the city, 
 
 But the bread and the butter 
 
 And lemon in soak; 
 
 The frock coats and spats. 
 
 And spotted cravats. 
 And the glossy, instead of the mossy, high hats 
 Did not please William Bunce, and the rest of his 
 crew. 
 
 Who complained of the prog. 
 
 Of the absence of grog; 
 And on leaving, each one of them wrote in his log, 
 
 ''Excuse me 
 
 From such Tea." 
 
 One evening at six by the clock in the spire 
 
 Lily rushed from the house, where the voice of her 
 
 sire 
 In terrible ire 
 Grew higher and higher. 
 In language so horrid, conclusive and torrid. 
 It seemed as though something most frightful had 
 
 been 
 The offending of Lily to cause such a scene. 
 What it was, I'm not sure, but was told that at Tea 
 She'd served eggs cooked four minutes, that should 
 
 have cooked three. 
 As the reason her dad tried to carve her a wee. 
 
Lily rushed from the house and went down to the 
 beach 
 
 Amidst cries of "you cat," 
 
 "You're a lobster/' and that 
 Sort of scarlet expression that leads to a spat. 
 She had hopes of a suicide out of his reach, 
 And to die, as all heroines do, with a screech. 
 
 Ere she did it, ah, me ! 
 
 This first felo de se 
 Seemed somewhat unpleasant on top of hot tea. 
 When she got a reception that caused her to stop 
 In a wave from the bottom that kept her on top. 
 
 Where she stayed 
 
 Like a maid 
 Not quite anxious to die. 
 And did as most maidens would do — that is, cry. 
 
 The voice of the clam shell was low and I thought of the 
 
 tale and its telling, 
 And all of the shingle was still, for the tide had gone out 
 
 to the sand bar ; 
 Far out I could hear the low roar, the rumble and crash 
 
 of the breakers ; 
 Away in the distance a sail, and sometimes the flash of a 
 
 sea mew. 
 It was day, but a dimness was there, a veil had o'er gath- 
 ered my eyelids 
 And I slumbered, then waked to a voice — 'twas the boom- 
 
 ety boom of the conch shell. 
 He told of a fisherman's dory, how Lily had tumbled 
 
 within it 
 And pushed it away from the shore, and was floating 
 
 alone on the breastings. 
 Of a sudden the metre was changed, to suit the weird 
 
 call of the drama. 
 For now lay the scene on the deep, and night-fall is over 
 
 the ocean. 
 
CANTO IV 
 
 A starry night, 
 
 A ringed moon, and Lily's flight 
 
 Are seen, whilst helping zephyr blows 
 
 The dory onward — AH her woes 
 
 Are greater now, for as she rows 
 She calls aloud to show her fright, 
 'The blessed land is out of sight !" 
 
 ''Help! Help!" she cried, and Hfting high 
 Looks of deep anguish to the sky 
 Sees with the sea-trained maiden eye 
 
 That all is lost ; 
 
 For, in the North are rushing fast 
 Black clouds, which tell of coming blast, 
 The stars are darkening, and at last 
 
 The boat is tossed 
 Whilst all around there seem to her 
 Grim visions of a mal de mer. 
 
 Shapes in the darkness scurry round, 
 A phantom ship sails outward bound. 
 
 Still Lily rows ; 
 With frantic haste she says a prayer, 
 Lets go the oars, undoes her hair, 
 
 Turns up her toes. 
 As they went up, the moon went down 
 So no one really saw her drown. 
 But in the blackness seemed to swarm 
 All the accompaniments of storm. 
 
 The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, 
 The rain in vibrant torrents poured ; 
 Swift-breaking surges leaped and swept. 
 Whilst wind moaned like a soul bereft 
 
Of love and hope — each rising breath 
 Crescendo accompaniment of Death. 
 Upon the mimic stage this din, 
 Is made by rattHng peas and tin, 
 And all these blue electric shocks 
 Are bought at thirty cents a box ; 
 But here all nature seemed to vie 
 In noisome clash, to see her die. 
 
 The fury of the storm, at last 
 Swept to the South — the Northern blast 
 Bore on the bosom of the swell 
 More softly now — the seething hell 
 Was lighted by a star or two, 
 That brought the dory into view, 
 And round the dory danced in play 
 Attendants of the Prince of Spray. 
 
 The Prince of Spray is known to all 
 Who ride the ocean's heaving breast. 
 They know the love tap of his kiss ; 
 They know the hurtling salt-clad hiss; 
 
 The riot of his reign they'd miss 
 
 Who love him best. 
 The marriage of the lusty wind 
 
 From North or South 
 
 From East or West, 
 (It matters not to shell-back mind) 
 To uplift of the surges' crest 
 
 Gives him his life. 
 Here he, with phosphorescent gleam 
 Attracted by poor Lily's scream 
 
 Comes fast — so soon, 'tis scarce polite, 
 
 For Lily was half dead with fright 
 And on the dory's bottom lay 
 Frail, fainting, and — decollete. 
 
It seemed that a madness came o'er me, I picked up that 
 
 conch shell and threw 
 It as far as I could, for the story it told was too tragic 
 
 and blue. 
 So, I hated its boom-ety boom-ty, and wanted the ta-ra- 
 
 de-ay 
 Of a sweet little trumpet beside me, that looked to have 
 
 something to say. 
 
 A trumpet shell voice is the softest of any that speak on 
 
 the shore, 
 And it tells to a lover a story of love 'til the lover of love 
 
 loveth more. 
 If they grow very big, as they do on the strands where the 
 
 Indian Ocean sweeps. 
 It changes its tones, and tells of bones, and roars of the 
 
 locker of Davy Jones, 
 
 And the love of a loved one weeps. 
 Then, I heard a little sea voice say, "If you'd really like 
 
 to hear, 
 I can tell you all that Lily did, when Spray, the Prince, 
 
 drew near." 
 
 I closed my eyes and whispered, 
 "I wish you would, my dear !" 
 
 CANTO V 
 
 The Prince of Spray, (the trumpet said) 
 Ne'er rises from his ocean bed. 
 Unless the wind-god calls him out 
 To join the bluster and the rout 
 Of all the forces of the deep ; 
 Or sometimes, when the Sea-god mocks 
 The shore line bastion of rocks, 
 The Spray will leap, and leaping may 
 Make so much foam-filled silver play, 
 The rock forgets, — and falls away. 
 
'Tis so a boulder comes and each 
 Becomes a refuge on the beach 
 For urchin, shrimp and spider-leech. 
 
 The Prince of Spray saw Lily's form. 
 
 She looked asleep, 
 A lovely flotsam of the storm 
 
 Within the keep 
 Of such a fishy dory that 
 Without a coat, without a hat 
 With eyes half-opened to the sky 
 She seared his heart — 
 
 I wonder why 
 In love, men heed not furbelow or frill, 
 They yield at once, and always will? 
 
 Then as he gazed with lover's thrill 
 He hated her for keeping still. 
 But loved her, fearing that she would 
 Move and awake, yet with a sigh, 
 He prayed the opening of an eye. 
 Ah ! much he craved, yet erstwhile she. 
 Damped and bedraggled, prayed that he 
 Would go away, — yet hoped he'd stay, 
 As maidens will, the usual way. 
 She saw him through her half-closed eyes, 
 And feigned to sleep. 
 
 The Prince splashed kisses on her face, 
 And bade his cousins from the sea- foam race, 
 The spindrift and the spume, embrace. 
 "Haste ! bring to me that mortal who 
 Mocks at my love." 
 Whilst Lily feeling cold and ill 
 Felt the sweet lashings of his love until 
 
She saw his eyes look love, and loving too 
 Quite closed hers slowly — as some lovers do 
 
 Who know the joy, whilst feeling pain from love, 
 And thus she said: 
 
 'Why come you here and kiss me when asleep, 
 Why till I waken would not kisses keep ? 
 E'en if I loved thee, know ye ! 'tis the way 
 To get a willing maiden to say nay." 
 
 He answered in a voice so sweet 
 She noted not the tricklings at her feet, 
 For thus he pled: 
 
 'Withhold thou not thy cold blue hand, 
 Thy hair-swept face, from me ; 
 What I have done do I again, 
 And then, from billows free. 
 Plead thy forgiveness, for 'tis sweet 
 Being suppliant unto thee !" 
 
 'Twas so the Prince made suit. 
 
 So back and forth 
 They dilly-dallied in the froth 
 Of waves cavorting from the North, 
 Until grown bolder in his love, 
 He gave the dory such a shove. 
 Poor Lily slipped, and all her charms 
 Were gathered in the Prince's arms. 
 Down ! Down ! beneath the waves they went 
 (Sing, Sea Muse! thine accompaniment) 
 Down ! Down ! beneath the swelling tide, 
 Down ! Down ! where kelp and coral bide ; 
 
To be the Princess Spray — a bride. 
 So Lily to all mortals died ; 
 But we, who know, see her each day, 
 In surges spume and spindrift play, 
 And hail her "Princess of the Spray." 
 
 I lay on my elbow and listened, but the voice in the 
 
 shingle was still, 
 Yet now that the sunlight was fading, I dreamed I was 
 
 dreaming, until 
 With the roar of the ocean came to me, a voice from the 
 
 surf line afar. 
 And the sound of a conch shell, a-blowing, a-blowing 
 
 Far over the bar. 
 It said just as plainly as could be, in tones I can never 
 forget, 
 
 "I'm the Prince of the Spray, 
 And as true as the day. 
 If you don't move away, 
 You'll get wet." 
 
Ube Claim 
 
 of tbc Sea 
 
 Two brothers were lashed in the crosstrees high, 
 
 On a stricken and stranded wreck ; 
 Whilst the mad waves reared and broke and ran, 
 
 And battered the hulk as sea waves can. 
 And boiled o'er the empty deck. 
 
 II 
 
 Out of the lowering clouds in the North 
 
 Loosed with a sullen roar — 
 The voice of the wind-god high and shrill 
 Leaped to the hearts of the men until 
 
 The battle for life seemed o'er. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Dark the despairing souls of two 
 
 High on the swaying mast. 
 With a sailor's ken they built small hope. 
 On the smothered deck — on the straining rope, 
 
 A vision of Death flies past. 
 
 IV 
 
 "Brother, look up ! see mounting there 
 
 The flame of a rocket's tail. 
 'Tis the life crew ! God !" — then the bright sparks fell 
 In the cauldron of seething, smashing hell. 
 
 Far, far, where the waters vail. 
 
"Look, brother! another!" — the wild gale sweep 
 
 Bears on the rocket's flight. 
 The light line falls on the thrumming stay, 
 Out of the mist in the spindrift way, 
 
 A wan hand seizes the bight. 
 
 VI 
 
 The rocket crew were fishing for lives 
 With a line and a rocket for bait ; 
 To land their catch from the quivering ship, 
 Then bent a hawser and tied a whip. 
 Eyes straining in darkness wait. 
 
 VII 
 
 The hawser moves — Thank God ! — a cheer 
 
 Lifts in the murky rout 
 Its sinuous way through the foam and spray. 
 Out where the sea-swept fabric lay; 
 
 All shout, "Pay it out ! Pay out !" 
 
 VIII 
 
 Two brothers high up in the crosstrees worked. 
 
 And fastened the hawser strong. 
 Each said, "We're saved ! go, brother, go I 
 You first in the breeches buoy" — and so 
 They argued it loud and long. 
 
 IX 
 
 The sea-god laughed — the wind-god wailed. 
 
 The brothers now brave of heart 
 Swore each to the other that he would stay. 
 And follow — not lead — on the watery way ; 
 
 Haste ! Haste, ere the mast shrouds part. 
 
Alas ! though the rocket crew fished for men, 
 
 They landed the mast instead, 
 For, the two brave souls in the crosstrees high. 
 Had striven and wrangled when help was nigh. 
 
 Being stronger of heart than head. 
 
 XI 
 
 When the dawn showed grey on the glistening strand. 
 
 He and his brother lay 
 Clasped each to the breast he had meant to save. 
 From the surges' sweep and the waters' grave. 
 And the nightfall of Death to each other gave, 
 
 A life of Eternal Day. 
 
Some mautical "ftonsense 
 "By jinks!" above the gale the captious captain cried, 
 "I have a good ship, btit the tide 
 And every wind from every quarter 
 
 Doth drive me back; 
 No further on my course am I, 
 
 Although I tack and tack, by jinks !" 
 
 Above the gale the good ship heard the shout 
 
 And promptly put herself about. 
 "I never heard a curse like that before," 
 The hull squeaked to the mast; 
 Then, proudly and quite promptly, went about again, 
 Until the yards stuck fast. 
 
 The mains'l fouled the middle shrouds, 
 
 The cro'jack fouled the jib. 
 And whilst the keelson struck the truck 
 
 The bilge pump sucked a rib ; 
 The tops'l halyards skipped a block, 
 
 But still, to make it worse, 
 The futtock shrouds and spanker boom 
 
 Had heard the captain's curse. 
 
 "There's mutiny," the captain cried; "there's mutiny 
 aloft!" 
 And at the words the cuddy cranked and drove the 
 hardtack soft. 
 "Send up the mate and donkey man ; 
 Send up the blooming crew." 
 
Then to their shame, when they got up, 
 
 By jinks ! he cursed them too. 
 At this the hawse-pipes hoarser got, 
 
 And midst the dreadful rout 
 The good ship cut a wave in two 
 
 And put herself about. 
 
 The captain paced the quarterdeck (and found it two 
 yards short) 
 He hauled the starboard gangplank in and thrust it 
 out to port. 
 Throwing the anchor overboard, 
 
 To go and find the mud. 
 He, (though it was twelve fathoms deep) 
 
 Stood listening for the thud. 
 Alas ! he did not hear it, so, though washed in every 
 shower, 
 He tied the capstan to his neck and went to find his 
 bower. 
 
 The capstan didn't like the work, explaining to a girder 
 
 That when the captain found the place, it seemed 
 akin to murder. 
 The anchor wouldn't leave the mud 
 
 Without his friend, the chain. 
 So died that captain in his flukes. 
 
 Close to the clammy main. 
 It was the curse that did it, though I think it rather sad. 
 
 That when I tell this story people say that I am mad. 
 
Ube %cc Sbore 
 
 Hard-a-lee ! the rocks are nearing, 
 Loud the tumbUng breakers roar, 
 
 Granite walls and sea-mossed boulders 
 Line the breast-works of the shore ; 
 
 Whilst the ocean calls to ocean, 
 Full of sacrifice for more. 
 
 Hard-a-lee! the helmsman answers — 
 Swift the plunging vessel's flight 
 Turns to face the fl3^ing spindrift, 
 
 Wind-borne children of the night, 
 Whilst the ocean calls to ocean. 
 Onward ! Onward ! in the fight. 
 
 Hard-a-lee ! Oh ! slatting headsails ! 
 
 List ye not the wind-god's rack ; 
 Heed not, stem ! the beating billows, 
 
 Shift thy burden with the tack. 
 Whilst the ocean calls to ocean, 
 
 Bid the sea horse charge them back. 
 
 Steady helm ! the frowning sea cliff 
 Laughs to see the battle o'er 
 Down the ages, lonely watcher 
 Of man fighting a lee shore. 
 Whilst the ocean calls to ocean, 
 Full of sacrifice for more. 
 
Hll 1Han&s 
 
 All Hands ! All Hands ! All Hands ! 
 The brave ship bends before the blast ; 
 The bos'un's whistle routs the watch below 
 To shorten sail — 'tis coming on to blow. 
 "All hands on deck," the weather thickens fast ! 
 
 "All hands on deck — the main t'gallant'sl 
 Lower away ! Take in the outer jib !" 
 A flash of lightning gleaming white 
 Opens the portal of the night 
 
 All hands to save the straining rib 
 Of gallant fabric in the gale. 
 
 "Stand by your tops'l halliards ! Mains'l up," 
 
 In fiercer squall the bulwarks lick the surge; 
 "Clew up and reef" — aloft the sailors spring ; 
 The wild wind moaning like some living thing, 
 And gathering strength to sing a dirge 
 Of sea grave offering. 
 
 "Down from aloft" — the steadying stays'l set ! 
 "Belay the halliards !"— See ! the pallid light 
 On yards and stays — the corposants fell blight 
 May claim them yet — but not to-night. 
 
 "Hold on for life !" — the ports are open wide 
 
 And loose the waist-caught billows to the tide. 
 
'AH Hands !" the bos'un's whistle shrill 
 Bosoms the gale ; a gleaming shark 
 
 With phosphorescent trail bestrews the dark; 
 The leaping waters toss 
 White breast of sleeping albatross. 
 
 Blow wind at will — Blow, bos'un shrill 
 Grog, Oh ! All hands ! with shortened sail, 
 The good ship safely rides the gale. 
 
H TPQlarnina 
 
 Oh, what is the sigh of the summer wind 
 
 As it spans o'er the summer seas, 
 But the murmuring ripple cast by the breath 
 
 In the kiss of a zephyr breeze. 
 When the waters stirred from their deeps below 
 
 Cast a sheen on the sunlight there 
 Where the fancy of light grows a folly of love, 
 
 At the touch of the lambent air. 
 
 Tis the fancy of love that a wind can change. 
 
 As a storm can grow from a breeze. 
 And raise from a ripple, a ruffle in life 
 
 To a rift in a summer ease. 
 When life is a summer sea — Ah, then ! 
 
 Keep an eye to the wind-god's quest. 
 Lest he seek in the calm of the summer of love 
 
 The throb of a soul's unrest. 
 
/ID00t)6 
 
 The Moods of man are many— of them : "Jealousy" which Uadeih to 
 " Pugnacity; " and " Bon't Care," which is the Mother of " Neglect." 
 
 The mood of a man is a varying thing 
 
 With its ups and downs, 
 Its laughter and tears, its hopes and fears, 
 
 Its smiles and frowns. 
 But beware! — just you! 
 
 Of the greenish hue. 
 Like the breast of a deep sea swell. 
 For the man who lives in a dark green mood 
 
 Is half way on the road to hell. 
 
 The mood of a man is a varying thing 
 
 Like a northern light ; 
 The fading day — in a golden way 
 
 Foretells the night. 
 But beware ! — just you ! 
 
 Of the blood-red hue, 
 'Tis a sign on the ocean swell, 
 For the man who lives in the red blood mood 
 
 Is half way on the road to hell. 
 
 The mood of a man is a varying thing. 
 
 Like the ocean's voice ; 
 Now deep and sad — now soft and glad 
 
 For a short life choice. 
 But beware! — just you! 
 
 Of the ''no-count" hue 
 Tis the mud in the ocean swell 
 For the man who lives in the "don't care" mood 
 
 Is half way on the road to hell. 
 
Hnotber 
 fID b 
 
Ube Wail of 
 
 tbe Mobo Scot 
 
 Fit-sair! an' O, 'tis sair tae feel 
 Th' blistered fit,— th' doon-trod heel, 
 
 Tae gang about an' grane an' limp 
 An' feel sae dour; 
 
 Tae see th' bairnies glint an' rin, 
 Wi fecksom glow'r. 
 
 Tis sair tae see th' lassies trip 
 Wi awesom look, — wi hands agrip, 
 
 An' glunch an' glower wi tim'rous een 
 When I gang by ; 
 
 Tae lean against th' gallant stoops 
 Wi arms awry. 
 
 'Tis sair tae see th' laddies hist 
 Wi bucklie stouk, wi brawlie fist, 
 
 Tae see th' een th' preachers gie 
 Thischielo' Hell; 
 
 But spite of a', what's said an' dune, 
 I'm juist mysel'. 
 
 I lo'e th' fields, th' crags, th' dunes. 
 I lo'e th' creatures, a' frae God, 
 I lo'e th' smell th' mornin' gies 
 
 Th' dewy sod. 
 I lo'e, wi' sodden care tae hear 
 
 Th' even bell. 
 An' in ma hayrick roost, tae dream, 
 
 I'm NO mysel' ! 
 
/lDotbcr*0 /iDtner 
 
 He was paddling in a snow-drift 
 
 In his little rubber boots, 
 And kicking snow around him 
 
 As he called with boyish hoots ; 
 Whilst his chubby face was glowing 
 
 With the rosy hue of health, 
 
 As he played he was a miner. 
 Digging in the snow for wealth. 
 
 He called, "I'm tummin' ! muzzer ! 
 
 When I've digged a little more." 
 Then, he threw the snow around him 
 
 'Til his little hands grew sore ; 
 But he never thought of quitting. 
 
 So his mother came by stealth 
 
 And seized that little miner 
 Digging in the snow for wealth. 
 
 "What's the matter, muzzer? Mayn't I," 
 
 And the little eyes grew dim. 
 And the little mouth grew puckered 
 
 As his mother cuddled him. 
 "Mayn't I play?" the babe voice quavered 
 
 To the guardian of his health, 
 "That I am a great big miner, 
 
 Digging in the snow for wealth?" 
 
 And the mother voice said softly, 
 
 As she kissed the tears away, 
 "You shall be a really miner 
 Every minute of the day. 
 
 For my love is like a mountain. 
 Where in sickness or in health 
 Its gold lies near the surface, so 
 
 My baby, mine its wealth." 
 
** irnbepcn&ence Day 
 
 Though the cry of the battle is wanting, and the voice of 
 
 contention is still, 
 A rattling like musketry covers the land, from valley and 
 
 hill; 
 And the boom of the cannon resoundeth — there is flight 
 
 of a rocket and hiss 
 With a tumult of sound from a clang to a clash, 
 And the crack of a cracker like this — 
 Sea-rat, sea-rat, sca-rat-ta-ta-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
 Tis the Fourth of July ! Rise, ye people ! Tell the children 
 
 the story of old 
 How a country grown sore at the will of a King, at the 
 
 will of its people grew bold. 
 Tell the tale of a tyrant oppression, of the call of the pa- 
 triots to fight, 
 How the roll of the drum called our fathers to come 
 And give up their lives for the right. 
 Sea-rat, sea-rat, sca-rat-ta-ta-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
 Tell the children how Adams in Congress ; — how Jeffer- 
 son, Franklin and Lee 
 By a stroke of a pen, cried aloud to all men, that the 
 
 country they loved must be free. 
 How the patriots gathered around them, few loving too 
 
 little to come 
 To fight for their homes and their country — 
 To answer the call of the drum. 
 Sea-rat, sea-rat, sca-rat-ta-ta-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
Tell the children of battles and fightings. Oh ! the story's 
 
 a good one to tell, 
 From the very first act of the British, to the clang of the 
 
 Liberty Bell. 
 And, so let them learn from their fathers, the only good 
 
 reason and why 
 There's a tumult of stir, and a fizz and a whir, 
 On this glorious old Fourth of July. 
 Sea-rat, sea-rat, sca-rat-ta-ta-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
partners 
 
 From dawn to twilight on life's way 
 
 Many the halting steps we take, 
 And wonder at the voices low, 
 
 The half-heard words that whisperings make. 
 Then, with a full forgetfulness, 
 
 We go and do — for someone's sake. 
 
 Partners ! it carries a sweet sound 
 This word that means completer life. 
 
 A shoulder to a shoulder set. 
 
 To meet the struggles and the strife ; 
 
 A hand clasped to a hand — to leave 
 Perhaps a ring — and gain a wife. 
 
 Partners! the toiling march of men 
 Sees mad and sane, the grave, the gay, 
 
 Some falling feebly on the road. 
 Whilst others build along the way. 
 
 To those who monument with you 
 Stand firm ! in work or play. 
 
 And yet again, do not forget 
 
 Midst structural din and busy stir, 
 Man was not born to live alone. 
 
 Nor every partner be a "Sir." 
 So, at the toast-time, lift ye high 
 
 Your goblet— ''Here's to her." 
 
The mantle of the future Hfts, 
 And midst the visions in the view 
 
 I see all kinds of ''partners" flit. 
 The ones to love — the ones to rue ; 
 
 Your voice above the rest I hear, 
 Saying, "Partner ! here's to you !" 
 
 But as the face I cannot see 
 I wonder if the partner be 
 
 A he — or she. 
 
ant) tbe Molt 
 
 As Love-god slept within the shade 
 
 A wolf came creeping through the glade, 
 
 Licking his lips in hungry joy, 
 To see the chubby little boy. 
 
 Soon down his throat the Love-god went, 
 And he, — without the least intent, — 
 
 Grew of a sudden kind and bland — 
 A mood he failed to understand. 
 
 I know, and quite believe it true 
 In spite of books and demagogues. 
 
 That very wolf whom Love-god slew 
 Is father of all faithful dogs ; 
 
 For love, doth often reach, they say. 
 
 The heart of man the selfsame way. 
 
Iprocrasttnatton 
 
 A song so sweet, I am going to write 
 That the Hstening world will thrill, 
 
 I'll do it too — but not to-night, 
 To-morrow, perhaps, I will. 
 
 A deed so great, I will do myself. 
 That the world may be proud of me, 
 
 I'll do it too — but not to-day, 
 To-morrow, perhaps, — we'll see ! 
 
 I must work that the grace of God may fall 
 
 And temper each worldly sin, 
 I'll do it too — but not to-night. 
 
 To-morrow, perhaps, begin. 
 
 I will speak some words of unselfish love 
 From a heart that is good and true. 
 
 I'll do it too — but not to-day. 
 To-morrow, begin anew. 
 
 Alas ! for the morrows that never come ; 
 
 For the deeds that lie fallow or dead. 
 For the songs unsung, for the prose unwrit. 
 
 And the words that we leave unsaid. 
 
 Life shall be sweeter, more helpful and great, 
 If we tread in God's glorious way. 
 
 And do all the things He would have us to do, 
 Not "to-morrow, perhaps," but to-day. 
 
tbe Sbore 
 
 Am I content ? Ah, No ! the stream of life 
 
 Has broadened out. The mists befog the shore. 
 My barque more frail, the waves upleaping toss 
 And press it sore. 
 
 And when the tide flows sullenly and deep 
 
 I drift along, — instead of working, wait 
 The unbidden ebb, and then despairing cry 
 Too late ! Too late ! 
 
 I know the shore is there. Long years ago 
 It was so close that I could almost touch 
 The blossoms on its banks. I want them now 
 O God ! how much ? 
 
Ube ipe05tmist*5 
 
 prayer 
 
 The world is ill-conditioned and disjointed, 
 
 The barbs that sting all seem to pierce at once, 
 
 Dark clouds hang lowering o'er the way appointed, 
 And scholars fail whilst garlands crown the dunce. 
 
 Hell is the prospect to the weary sinner 
 
 Striving 'gainst odds to reach the gold-hued gate ; 
 
 Our weaknesses the halo of the winner 
 
 Who loves a world which fosters only hate. 
 
 See ! how the future stands before us, 
 
 Mocking the present which our lives have wrought ; 
 We plant the garden of our love to bore us. 
 
 Or buy the souls on devil's highway taught. 
 
 Is there no road that passes by such sorrow ? 
 
 Is there no path that girts the tear-strewn way? 
 Only, the answer comes, when God's to-morrow 
 
 Breaks with its cloudless skies a dark to-day. 
 
 So, Death, come thou ! stretch out thine arms and take me 
 
 Into the Valley of Eternal Rest ; 
 Leaving the world, let worldliness forsake me, 
 
 My soul be calm, and beautiful and blest. 
 
 Memory, thou changeful tyrant, stay behind me, 
 Bring thou no passion to my present will ; 
 
 Call me, O God ! and let Thy call remind me. 
 In Thee alone lies severance from ill. 
 
fliltdd %a Grippe 
 
 I had an introduction one damp day to Miss La Grippe, 
 And she really almost took my breath away, 
 
 For she seemed alive with headaches as she fell upon my 
 neck 
 In a manner, — well, 'twas forward, I must say ! 
 
 She had some little shivers which she promptly gave to 
 me. 
 And one of extra size she called a chill. 
 She hit me in the back. Just think ! We'd never met be- 
 fore! 
 Such familiar ways ! She really made me ILL ! 
 
 I tried quite hard to leave her, but she grabbed me by the 
 spine. 
 And said she had an extra fine job lot 
 Of aches and pains to fit my legs, and those she gave to 
 me. 
 I wished she'd go away ! She made me HOT I 
 
 I may have some attractions, but such giving at first 
 sight 
 A proper man must say 'twas overbold ; 
 So I sneezed a strident sneeze or two, and water dimmed 
 my eyes. 
 And instead of feeling hotter — I grew COLD. 
 
I don't mind gifts at Christmas or when birthdays come 
 around, 
 And I always thank the giver — like a brick; 
 But to meet a strange young damsel in such generous 
 giving mood 
 Is more than I can stand. She made me SICK ! 
 
 So now, choke full of quinia pills, I'm here upon my bed, 
 Where I'm laying all my troubles at her door ; 
 
 And I swear with rubber boots and things I'll insulate 
 myself. 
 If she comes my way again. She makes me SORE. 
 
Hdai n 
 
Be S)one 
 
 Oh ! draw us nearer to Thee, Lord, 
 
 With penitential prayer, 
 Grow in our hearts such love for Thee, 
 
 That we may dare 
 To boldly tread life's path, until 
 We love the doing of Thy will. 
 
 Oh ! draw us nearer to Thee, Lord, 
 
 That through the day. 
 In deeps or shallows we may see the shore 
 
 Firm in the way, 
 So, boldly sail life's stream until 
 Thou at the helm shalt do Thy will. 
 
 Oh! draw us nearer to Thee, Lord, 
 
 That when the night 
 Mantles the living, all our trust in Thee 
 
 Shall bring us light. 
 Light that Thou only. Lord, instil 
 In those who love to do Thy will. 
 
 Oh! draw us nearer to Thee, Lord! 
 
 That we may be 
 At Thy last call, close to the Cross 
 
 Of Calvary, 
 And in the throng around Thee still 
 Loving the working of Thy will. 
 
H Xenten 
 
 Iprai^er 
 
 Hold Thou Thy light, Oh, Lord ! 
 
 Before my feet. 
 The way is dark and all that leads to Thee 
 Is deep in lethal mist — the worldly lethargy 
 
 Makes life so sweet 
 That tho' 'tis day, the path to Thee is night ; 
 
 Hold Thou Thy light. 
 
 Hold Thou Thy light, Oh, Lord! 
 
 Before my feet. 
 And let the sweetness of Thy voice 
 Calling me onward deep the syren song, 
 Where worldly ambush lies — Thy path my choice 
 But all the throng. 
 Darkens the road to Thee ; 
 Hold Thou Thy light. 
 
 If Thou wilt hold Thy light, Oh Lord ! 
 
 Before my feet, 
 My darkest days 
 
 Will lighten in the struggle for the goal 
 Thou'dst have me reach, — and then my soul 
 Singing Thy praise wilt echo love so sweet 
 
 That from the night 
 
 Will dawn a day complete, 
 If Thou wilt hold Thy light. Oh, Lord, 
 Before my feet. 
 
Xove'6 Xocft 
 
 Key of my heart, thou art no use at all, 
 Thy phantom presence doth my spirit mock ; 
 For those I love, in sunshine or in squall 
 Can pick the lock. 
 
B Uoast 
 
 Here's to the words of love we leave unspoken ! 
 Here's to the hearts to break we leave unbroken ! 
 Here's to the things to do, we leave undone ! 
 Each in itself in the battle of life 
 A victory won ! 
 
MAR 18 1905