0^ 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 • * 
 
 V 
 
 / 
 
 / •
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 OF 
 
 GREATER BRITAIN
 
 The grand power of poetry is the interpretative power; 
 by which I mean its power of so deaUng with things as to 
 awaken in us a wonderfully full, new, and intimate sense 
 of them. M. Arnold. 
 
 Poetry is that which expands, rarefies, raises our whole 
 being: without it man's life is poor as beast's. 
 
 Hazlitt. 
 
 It lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world — 
 makes familiar effects to be as if they were not familiar. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 It raises the mind and hurries it into sublimity by 
 confusing the shapes of things to the desires of the soul. 
 
 Bacon.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 OF 
 
 GREATER BRITAIN 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 E. A. HELPS 
 
 FORMERLY ONE OF H.M. INSPECTORS OF SCHOOLS 
 
 "' » ^ J .. ^ ^ <• '■ 
 
 
 
 LONDON & TORONTO 
 
 J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. 
 NEW YORK: E. P. BUTTON & CO. 191 3
 
 V' 
 
 t c 
 fit 
 
 *. t ^ ««.( *<.
 
 H36s 
 PREFACE 
 
 I 
 
 ^ This volume, in which poems are literally brought together 
 
 I from the ends of the earth, contains a selection of poetry from 
 
 ^ Australia, New Zealand, Canada, South Africa, India, and the 
 
 \^ Crown Colonies descriptive of nature, life, and incident in 
 
 these parts of the empire. 
 
 ^ Several motives have inspired it. It is an attempt to bring 
 
 ^ into closer touch the Dominions, with a view to their better 
 
 j^<^understanding of each other's trials, difficulties, and successes. 
 
 I^flt is an attempt also to make us at home realise more fully 
 
 v'l^he great qualities and strenuous lives of those who have 
 
 ' Splayed so large a part in building up the empire — we may have 
 
 written better poetry, they have lived it — and also " lest 
 
 we forget " to keep alive, both at home and abroad, memories 
 
 of the courage, endurance, and heroic deeds of the pioneers, 
 
 and ignore the debt we owe to those who have proved 
 
 worthy sons of the empire, and have opened up so many 
 
 avenues for our sons and daughters to a wider, freer life, 
 
 to health and wealth. 
 
 Lastly, I hope this book will introduce readers at home to 
 poetry which has a charm of its own, due to its freshness, 
 originality, viriHty, and variety of subject, and incidentally 
 it can scarcely fail to gi\e its readers some notion of the 
 wealth, beauty, and resources of various parts of the 
 empire. 
 
 It may be said, too, that the cultivation of poetry and the 
 
 ^ imagination are never more to be desired than when the 
 
 material needs of growing civilisation tend to deaden the 
 
 higher feelings. It is then that the inspiration of the poet 
 
 is needed. 
 
 In designing the lines which I should follow in making 
 this selection, I determined to omit poetry of the passions 
 as being outside the aims and scope of this selection. For 
 the same reasons I omit poetry of a sacred or devotional 
 character. I have, however, brought together much patriotic, 
 legendary, and historical verse, as well as descriptive lyrics 
 
 V 

 
 vi Preface 
 
 and ballads, and poems of the imagination; but I have 
 admitted but little verse of a humorous character. So far as 
 religious poetry is concerned apparently but little has been 
 written: however, much of the poetry to be found herein 
 breathes a spirit of true religion. 
 
 In each section I have grouped the poems according to 
 subject as far as possible. 
 
 In thus confining the scope of my field of selection I have 
 no doubt sacrificed some poems of merit; and I need scarcely 
 say that I have failed to cull all the flowers of poetry from 
 the field of my research. I fear, too, that, partly owing to 
 my field of choice being limited, and partly to consideration 
 of the length of a poem, I may not always have done justice 
 to those who have so kindly given me permission to include 
 their poems in this volume. 
 
 Nor can I lay claim to completeness; (unfortunately in 
 the cases of a few writers in Australia and South Africa, 
 several examples of whose work I particularly wished to 
 give, I have been unable to obtain permission); doubtless, 
 also, good work has escaped my notice. Indeed, this volume 
 must be regarded as giving only a fairly comprehensive 
 foretaste of our kinsfolk's work in the field of poetry. 
 
 The kindness and generosity of Canadian authors and 
 publishers is a happy memory, and on the whole Australia 
 and South Africa have been very liberal and helpful to me. 
 
 I greatly regret that from want of space I am unable to 
 include any of the charming poetry of the French Canadians, 
 Frechette, Chapman, and others. 
 
 As regards some of the poetry included in this selection, 
 it cannot be said to be of the highest order. Poetry is an 
 art, as well as an inspiration, and demands study of quantity, 
 accents, metres, etc., and in the case of some of the writers 
 of verse in this volume such study has been impossible, 
 but perhaps, as Home says: " He who can give a form and 
 expression to these lofty or these noble manifestations in 
 a way that shall be most intelligible to the majority, is he 
 who best accomplishes the mission of a poet." 
 
 That there should be some shortcomings is not a matter for 
 surprise. Canada has been in existence for only about 150 
 years, if we put out of consideration the French occupation, 
 and the greater part, the North-West Territory, has been 
 settled only in recent years. Australia has had a much
 
 Preface vii 
 
 shorter life, and, until comparatively recently, the conditions 
 of life of her people have been unfavourable to reflection and 
 literary expression. South Africa has a life-history still 
 more unfavourable, torn as she has been by the conflict of 
 races, the struggles for ascendancy, the greed of those who 
 exploited her in the past, and finally the disruption caused 
 by the war. Also, it has to be remembered that its white 
 population is relatively small. 
 
 But notwithstanding all these circumstances, poems show- 
 ing keen appreciation of the beauties of nature and spiritual 
 apprehension of its meaning are to be found even in the verse 
 of the earliest pioneers of civilisation, for instance, in that of 
 Charles Mair, Sangster, and McLachlan in Canada, of Harpur 
 and Gordon in Australia, of Pringle in South Africa. Indeed, 
 nearly every early settler of mind and education seems to 
 have been potentially a poet. No doubt the solitary life and 
 his environment conduced to this. Shelley speaks of " the 
 nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own 
 solitude with sweet song." 
 
 The imperial idea evidently permeates the consciousness of 
 all the great parts of the empire. Romance, as Rudyard 
 Kipling has abundantly shown, is not confined to moving 
 stories and legends of the past, and a wide field is opened to 
 the imagination in the birth of a nation. 
 
 There is abundant evidence of the influence of Wordsworth, 
 Shelley, Longfellow, Mrs. Hemans, and Kipling, whose 
 influence has appealed perhaps rather too strongly to the 
 virile minds of those engaged in struggling with the forces of 
 nature or man. Bret Harte, Gordon, and others also have 
 a following, but in every age the poet has often modelled his 
 work more or less on that of his predecessors which has most 
 appealed to him. 
 
 Most of the poems, as might be expected coming from those 
 dealing with the stern realities of life in overcoming difficulties, 
 are objective in character. And the reader must not look 
 for any highly finished productions of the boudoir type. 
 Those from Austraha and New Zealand are suggestive of 
 bush life, life in the saddle, sheep or cattle farming: they 
 present vivid pictures of the trials, pleasures, and humours 
 of those who have " gone through the mill." As A. B. 
 Paterson says of his poems in a preface, they " are the 
 records of wandering years, just the rude stones one hears."
 
 viii Preface 
 
 The physical features of these countries may easily be 
 visualised from these poems; and it is noticeable that whilst 
 much of the New Zealand poetry rhapsodises over the 
 grandeur, variety, and beauty of its scenery, the Australian 
 poetry often, as in Kendall's, touches on the dread and 
 mystery of those barren wastes lying outside the settled 
 parts; though the majority of the bush poets strike a free 
 and joyful note. Something of Wordsworth's greatness, 
 which Matthew Arnold attributed to " the extraordinary 
 power with which he feels the joy offered to us in nature," 
 may, I think, be found. 
 
 The Canadian poets, a maturer people, with great variety 
 and spaciousness in their surroundings, naturally strike more 
 strings, and some with greater sureness than the other 
 Dominions; also there is perhaps a more strident and insistent 
 note of pride in their country and patriotism than is to be 
 found elsewhere. Their lyrics mostly treat of farming, 
 lumbering, trapping, and forest clearing: they, too, have a 
 picturesqueness and humour all their own, and the grandeur 
 and beauty of their scenery naturally leads to lofty flights 
 and patriotic fervour. Then, too, the French element 
 undoubtedly has informed and infused picturesqueness and 
 brightness into much of Canadian literature. 
 
 In South Africa the dominant note the poets sing and dwell 
 upon is the veld, its vastness, mystery, and compelling 
 fascination, and the feelings inspired by the degraded, half- 
 civilised natives. 
 
 As a rule what may be called the humour of the poetry of 
 the strenuous life is dry, and caustic to a fault, though now 
 and then a little sentiment crops up. 
 
 All the poetry is redolent of open-air life. Many whose 
 poems are found herein are men who have led a strenuous 
 life, and their themes are familiar ones — the gold fields, the 
 cattle, the camp, etc. Their verse comes straight from the 
 heart and deals with homely tragedy and comedy. It is often 
 of the soil racv, and shows us the colonists " in their habit 
 as they live." To me, as I hope to others, any lack of " form," 
 of grace, of the power of perfect expression or felicitous 
 language is generally compensated by the freshness of the 
 themes and the virility of their treatment. Its simplicity 
 is often that of youth, its pathos that of those who 
 learn " in suffering what they teach in song," and some
 
 Preface ix 
 
 of the poems are the results of " the best and happiest 
 moments of the best and happiest minds." There is remark- 
 ably little of the modern restless pessimistic spirit, or of 
 philosophic doubt, lack of faith, or disbelief in the goodness 
 of God's final purpose. The soHtary life of the settler seems 
 to engender a calmness of soul and a spirit of trust and 
 resignation. Above all the poetry is sincere. One feels that 
 the poet's images have come to him; that he has not been 
 striving from any vanity to call them forth. 
 
 I do not propose to attempt to weigh or contrast the merits 
 of the various writers. In the first place, I do not feel com- 
 petent to do so, and, secondly, it would be ungracious. I 
 may say, however, that among the Australian poets it appears 
 to me Alfred Domett should rank very high — I believe he is 
 called the Australian Pope — but he seems to me to have the 
 feeling for inanimate nature and insight of Wordsworth with 
 the romanticism and expression of Scott; he was Browning's 
 " Waring." After him I should place Kendall, the spirit of 
 whose muse is rather brooding and melancholy. Gordon's 
 poems must always deservedly rank high, both from their 
 wide range of thought, and for his sympathy with the horse, 
 and power of expressing the joys of the saddle. Some recent 
 writers, however, run him very close on the latter ground. 
 The ring of Paterson's, Ogilvie's, and Henry Lawson's verse 
 is full of vigour and humanity and true to the core, and that 
 of Essex Evans is distinguished. It seems there are few 
 women among the poets of Australia, or else I have not been 
 fortunate in discovering them; some charming poems by 
 Miss Mackellar, however, have been granted me. New Zea- 
 land is well to the fore with the work of W. Pember Reeves, 
 Kelly, and the pure and delicate verse of Margaret N. Sinclair. 
 
 Canada, the big brother, bulks large in the collection, and 
 the earliest poetry is by no means the weakest. The more 
 modem examples reflect the majesty and glow of its grand 
 scenery and its exhilarating winter, and show a finer per- 
 ception of the moods of Nature, more sympathy for decaying 
 native races, and more subtlety and finish. It would be 
 invidious to consider the rival claims of its numerous band of 
 poets, from which the Celtic spirit and imagination are not 
 absent. Among the moderns recognised for distinction are 
 W. H. Drummond, examples of whose delightful dialect 
 poetry I have been fortunate enough to secure; J. D. Edgar,
 
 X Preface 
 
 Duncan Campbell Scott (whose work seems to me to possess 
 a peculiarly strong quality), C. G. D. Roberts, Dr. A. Watson, 
 R. W. Kenningham, A. W. H. Eaton, J. N. Baylis, W. Wye 
 Smith, W. W. Campbell, R. W, Service, R. Stead, and many 
 others. 
 
 Among the women the names of Helena Coleman, Ethelwyn 
 Wetherald, Mrs. Jean Blewett, Agnes M. Machar, and 
 Pauline Johnson stand out. One of the youngest, Marjorie 
 L. C. Pickthall, is of great promise. 
 
 Among the South African poets the work of John Runcie, 
 Kingsley Fairbridge, and W. Scully is distinguished for its 
 insight and fidelity to nature. I regret I have not been 
 successful in obtaining more of Lance Fallaw's poems. 
 
 I have experienced considerable difficulty in obtaining 
 poetry suitable for the purpose of this selection from India 
 and the Crown Colonies. Many highly gifted civil servants 
 have wooed the Muse, but their best energies not unnaturally 
 have been devoted to the rendering into English of native 
 poems and legends. As regards the lighter verse there is a 
 tendency — perhaps adopted as a relief to the onerous duties 
 of office — to treat of the humorous side of their lives and of 
 the natives with whom they are brought into contact. 
 
 I am glad to be able to give a few poems written in our 
 language by natives of India, Ceylon, and the West Indies, 
 and among the poems by Indians I would call attention to 
 those of Sarojini Naidu which are distinguished for their 
 tender grace, subtlety, and insight. 
 
 If, as I hope it may, this volume makes known to each other 
 kindred spirits at the poles apart; brings home to my country- 
 men a clearer idea of the conditions of life, the character, and 
 aims of their kinsfolk in the Great Dominions, and tends to 
 knit closer the bonds of brotherhood throughout the empire, 
 I shall be amply repaid for my trouble in compiling this 
 selection, the shortcomings of which I trust all who have so 
 kindly contributed poems will overlook. 
 
 I tender the most sincere and grateful thanks to the many 
 authors whose names are given in the Table of Contents, for 
 the permission so kindly and generously accorded to me to 
 include some of their poems in this volume. 
 
 Several South African poems included in this book are 
 taken from the little volume Veld singers' Verse by the 
 courtesy of the Veldsingers' Club, Johannesburg,
 
 Preface xi 
 
 I am also greatly indebted to the following-mentioned, 
 for permission to include poems of which they hold the 
 copyrights. 
 
 Messrs. Angus & Robertson, Sydney, for poems by A. B. 
 Paterson, Essex Evans, Will Ogilvie, Henry Lawson, Victor Daley, and 
 Brunton Stephens. 
 
 Messrs. Bickers & Son, London, for a poem by W. Waddington. 
 
 H. Brett, Auckland, N.Z., for a poem by W. Wills. 
 
 The Rev. W. Briggs, Toronto, for poems by W. Wilfred Campbell, 
 W. Wye Smith, A. N. St. John Mildmay, and Bengough. 
 
 Constable & Co., London, for a poem by J. K. Kendall. 
 
 E. H. Crouch, Esq., Cambridge, South Africa, for certain poems from 
 his Treasury of South African Verse. 
 
 Fisher Unwin, London, for two poems by R. W. Service. 
 
 W. Garvin, Esq., Orillia, Ontario, for poems by Isabella Valancy 
 Crawford. 
 
 Messrs. Galloway & Porter, Cambridge, for some poems from 
 Echoes from East to West, by Roby Datta. 
 
 Messrs. Gordon & Gotch, Wellington, N.Z., for poems by Will 
 Lawson. 
 
 Messrs. Griffith, Farran & Co., London, for poems by C. A. 
 Sherard and Bathgate. 
 
 Messrs. Heineman, London, for poems from The Golden Threshold, 
 by Sarojini Naidu. 
 
 Messrs. Hunter, Rose & Co., Toronto, Canada, for permission to use 
 any copyright work of theirs. 
 
 W. D. Lighthall, Esq., K.C., Montreal, for certain poems from 
 Songs of the Great Dominion. 
 
 John Lovell & Son, Montreal, for poems from books published by 
 them, 
 
 Messrs. A. H. Massina & Co., Melbourne, for poems by Adam 
 Lindsay Gordon, of which they hold the copyright. 
 
 Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd., London, for a poem from Silver- 
 leaf and Oak, by Lance Fallow. 
 
 T. Maskew Miller, Cape Town, South Africa, for a poem from 
 Martin Foote's Cutting Capers. 
 
 Messrs. Methuen & Co., London, for The White Man's Burden, by 
 R. Kipling. 
 
 Messrs. G. P. Putnams Sons, New York and London, for poems 
 from Dr. Drummond's fohnny Corteau, and The Habitant. 
 
 Mrs. Theodore Rand, Wolfville, Nova Scotia, for permission to 
 quote poems from The Treasury of Canadian Verse.
 
 xii Preface 
 
 Messrs. W. Rider & Sons, London, for poems from R. Greentree's 
 Poems of the Malay Peninsula. 
 
 Messrs. Robertson & Co., Melbourne, Australia, for poems by 
 Henry Clarence Kendall. 
 
 Messrs. G. Routledge & Sons, London, for poems by Sir Alfred 
 Conyer Lyall. 
 
 The Walter Scott Publishing Co., London and Felling-on-Tyne, 
 for certain poems from A Century of Australian Song. 
 
 Elliot Stock, Publisher, London, for poems from Lays of the True 
 North. 
 
 " The Spectator," London, for a poem by Dorothea Mackellar. 
 
 Messrs. W. Thacker & Co., London, for a poem from f.ays of Ind, 
 by Aliph Cheem, cind poems from Ballads of Burma, by M. C. Conway 
 Poole. 
 
 The New Zealand Times Co., for a poem from Laughter and Tears, 
 by Frank Morton. 
 
 E. A. HELPS. 
 
 London, 1912.
 
 THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 Send forth the best ye breed — 
 Go bind your sons to exile 
 
 To serve your captive's need ; 
 To wait in heavy harness 
 
 On fluttered folk and wild — 
 Your new-caught, sullen peoples, 
 
 Half devil and half child. 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 In patience to abide. 
 To veil the threat of terror 
 
 And check the show of pride ; 
 By open speech and simple, 
 
 An hundred times made plain, 
 To seek another's profit, 
 
 And work another's gain. 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 The savage wars of peace — 
 Fill full the mouth of Famine 
 
 A nd bid the sickness cease ; 
 And when your goal is nearest 
 
 The end for others sought. 
 Watch Sloth and heathen Folly 
 
 Bring all your hope to nought. 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 No tawdry rule of kings, 
 But toil of serf and sweeper — 
 
 The tale of common things. 
 The ports ye shall not enter, 
 
 The roads ye shall not tread. 
 Go make them with your living. 
 
 And mark them with your dead. 
 xiii
 
 xiv The White Man's Burden 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 And reap his old reward : 
 The blame of those ye better. 
 
 The hate of those ye guard — 
 The cry of hosts ye humour 
 
 {Ah slowly !) towards the light: — 
 " Why brought ye us from bondage, 
 
 Otir loved Egyptian night ? " 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 Ye dare not stoop to less — 
 Nor call too loud on Freedom 
 
 To cloak from weariness ; 
 By all ye cry or whisper, 
 
 By all ye leave or do. 
 The silent, sullen peoples 
 
 Shall weigh your god and you. 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 Have done with childish days— 
 The lightly proffered laurel. 
 
 The easy ungriidged praise. 
 Comes now, to search from manhood 
 
 Through all the thankless years. 
 Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom, 
 
 The judgment of your peers ! 
 
 RuDYARD Kipling.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CANADIAN AUTHORS 
 Professor WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON, Winnipeg. 
 
 Cartier arrives at Stadacona 
 At a Toboggan Meet 
 
 SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS, 
 Montreal .... 
 The Music of the Reel 
 
 Mrs. jean BLEWETT, Toronto. 
 Quebec .... 
 Song of the Golden Sea 
 A Good Woman 
 
 The Amber Army 
 
 Montreal. 
 
 Camp and Lamp 
 
 The Cornflower 
 Heart Songs 
 
 PAGE 
 
 II 
 no 
 
 i8 
 57 
 
 i8 
 1x6 
 163 
 
 The Rev. W. WILFRED CAMPBELL, New Brunswick. 
 
 Lake Huron 
 Vapour and Blue 
 
 E. J. CHAPMAN 
 
 Lake Scene in Western Canada 
 
 HELENA COLEMAN, Ontario. 
 Night among the Thousand Isles 
 
 On the Trail 
 
 Forest Tragedy . 
 
 Among the Pines 
 
 The PeUcan 
 
 Dawn 
 
 The Prospector . 
 
 ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE. 
 The Woman's Part 
 
 ALMA F. McCOLLUM. 
 Why Blossoms Fall 
 
 ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD. 
 
 Song of the Axe 
 
 The Deacon and His Daughter 
 
 La Blanchisseuse 
 
 The Farmer's Daughter Cherry . 
 
 Rev. H. F. DARNELL. 
 
 The Maple .... 
 
 XV 
 
 Lake Lyrics 
 
 The Snake Witch and 
 Other Poems 
 
 Songs and Sonnets 
 (A. Briggs, Toronto) 
 
 T. Rand's Treasury 
 of Canadian Verse 
 
 42 
 42 
 
 43 
 
 41 
 
 9^ 
 98 
 
 121 
 132 
 
 162 
 
 33 
 
 Flower Legends and 126 
 Other Verses 
 
 The Collected Poems of 
 
 52 
 74 
 77 
 79 
 
 Dewart's Selections from 120 
 Canadian Poets 
 
 \
 
 XVI 
 
 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 J. F. McDonnell. 
 
 I've Wandered in the Sunny South 
 
 WILLIAM H. DRUMMOND. 
 The Habitant's Jubilee Ode 
 Little Bateese . 
 Johnny Corteau 
 The Cur6 of Calumette 
 Le Docteur Fiset 
 De Nice Leetle Canadienne 
 
 Deuart's Selections from 
 Canadian Poets 
 
 The Habitant 
 Johnny Corteau 
 
 The Rev. ARTHUR WENTWORTH 
 Puritan Planters 
 L'Isle Saint Croix 
 Old Wharves, Halifax, Nova Scotia 
 Port Royal .... 
 
 Sir JAMES D. EDGAR. 
 Canadian Camping Song 
 The Canadian Whitethroat . 
 
 The Habitant 
 
 HAMILTON EATON. 
 Acadian Ballads 
 
 Mrs. S. E. SHERWOOD 
 Sunrise on the Ocean 
 
 Hon. T. D. McGEE 
 Jacques Cartier . 
 
 FAULKNER. 
 
 This Canada of Ours 
 
 W. D. Lighthall's 
 Songs of the Great 
 Dominion 
 
 E. PAULINE JOHNSON (Tekahionwake), Vancouver. 
 
 R. 
 
 In the Shadows 
 
 Harvest Time .... 
 Silhouette .... 
 
 The Quill Worker 
 
 The Legend of Qu'Appelle Valley . 
 
 KIRKLAND KERNINGHAM. 
 I'll Follow Jane .... 
 My Summer Fallow . 
 Be Merciful to the Horse 
 
 W. D. Lighthall's 
 Songs of the Great 
 Dominion 
 
 »» 
 T. Rand's Treasury 
 of Canadian Verse 
 Canadian Born 
 
 The Khan's Canticle 
 
 ALEXANDER McLACHLAN, 1820. 
 Companions in Solitude 
 Acres of Your Own . . ' . 
 
 Whip-poor-Will 
 
 Mrs. LEPROHON, Montreal, 1832-79. 
 A Canadian Summer Evening 
 Canadian Woods in Early Autumn 
 The Huron Chief's Daughter 
 
 W. DOUW LIGHTHALL, 
 The Pioneers 
 
 K.C., Montreal. 
 
 W. D. Lighthall's 
 Songs of the Great 
 Dominion 
 
 JOHN E. LOGAN 
 The Injun. 
 
 (Barry Dane), Montreal. 
 
 19 
 
 82 
 85 
 87 
 89 
 
 93 
 95 
 
 II 
 
 14 
 16 
 16 
 
 53 
 131 
 
 163 
 
 103 
 
 115 
 140 
 
 141 
 153 
 
 81 
 
 112 
 165 
 
 49 
 
 51 
 
 129 
 
 III 
 114 
 136 
 
 47 
 
 132
 
 Contents xvii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 AGNES MAUDE MACHAR, Toronto. 
 
 Dominion Day .... Lays of the True North 6 
 
 Laura Secord .... „ 23 
 
 The Indian Pipe ... „ 123 
 
 The May-flower .... „ 124 
 
 The Passing of Clote-Scarp . . „ 156 
 
 CHARLES MAIR. 
 
 Missipowistic .... Tecumseh and other 34 
 
 Canadian Poems 
 The Pines ..... „ 122 
 
 HELEN M. MERRILL, Toronto. 
 
 Sand Pipers .... The Blue Flower and 128 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 A. St. JOHN MILDMAY, Vancouver. 
 
 Vancouver .... Sea Room 19 
 
 Mrs. MOODIE. 
 
 The Fisherman's Light . . Dewart's Selections from 107 
 
 Canadian Poets 
 The Canadian Herd-Boy . . „ 107 
 
 Miss MURRAY. 
 
 How They Died at Thansi . . „ 20 
 
 MARJORIE C. L. PICKTHALL. 
 
 Frost Song . . . . . . ... 118 
 
 Swallow Song . . . . ..... 165 
 
 The Shepherd Boy . . 166 
 
 The Immortal . . . . ..... 167 
 
 FRANK L. POLLOCK. 
 
 The Trail of Gold ... J. Rand's Treasury 73 
 
 of Canadian Verse 
 THEODORE H. RAND. 
 
 From " Song Waves " . . Song Waves 159 
 
 JOHN READE, F.R.S.C, Montreal. 
 
 Madeleine de Vercheres . . W. D. Lighthall's 27 
 
 Songs of the Great 
 Dominion 
 ROBERT REID. 
 
 A Song of Canada ... „ 4 
 
 C. G. D. ROBERTS. 
 
 Khartoum .... The Collected Poems of 30 
 
 (Constable and Co.) 
 
 On the Creek .... „ 98 
 
 The Forest Fire .... „ 100 
 
 An August Wood Road . . „ 117 
 How the Mohawks set out for 
 
 Medoctec .... „ 138 
 
 Origins ..... „ i6i 
 
 THEODORE ROBERTS. 
 
 Dargai Ridge .... Northland Lyrics 30 
 
 CAROLL RYAN. 
 
 The Night Bird 129 
 
 b
 
 XVlll 
 
 Contents 
 
 CHARLES SANGSTER (1822-1893). 
 The Thousand Isles 
 
 W. D. IJghthaU's 
 Songs of the Great 
 Dominion 
 
 The Rapid .... 
 
 Taapooka .... 
 
 R. W. SERVICE. 
 
 The Spell of the Yukon 
 
 The Ballad of Hard-luck Henry 
 
 DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, Ottawa. 
 At the Cedars .... 
 
 The Forsaken .... 
 
 The Half-breed Girl 
 
 On the Way to the Mission 
 
 The Rev. FREDERICK G. SCOTT. 
 A Hymn of Empire 
 
 The Temple of the Ages 
 A Sister of Charity 
 
 KATE B. SIMPSON. 
 
 Rough Ben .... 
 
 The Songs of a Stir- 
 dough ( Fisher Unwin) 
 
 R. C. STEAD, Alberta. 
 Mother and Son 
 
 The Mixer .... 
 
 A Prairie Heroine 
 
 The Rev. W. WYE SMITH, 1827. 
 The Canadians on the Nile . 
 
 EDWARD W. THOMSON. 
 Thunder child's Lament 
 
 Dr. albert D. WATSON, Toronto. 
 Niagara ..... 
 
 The Fishers .... 
 
 ARTHUR weir. 
 
 The Secret of the Sanguonay 
 
 Voyageur's Song 
 
 ETHELWYN WETHERALD. 
 
 Midday in Midsummer 
 The Silent Snow 
 Tree Memories . 
 The Indigo Bird. 
 The Sunflowers . 
 At Waking 
 
 Mrs. yule (Pamela Vising). 
 The Beech-nut Gatherer 
 
 page 
 40 
 
 102 
 150 
 
 68 
 70 
 
 New Land Lyrics and 
 Other Poems 
 
 55 
 
 142 
 
 145 
 146 
 
 The Collected Poems of 
 (Constable and Co.) 
 
 T. Rand's Treasury 
 of Canadian Verse 
 
 The Empire Builders 
 
 Selected Poems 
 (W. Briggs) 
 
 46 
 64 
 
 64 
 
 7 
 58 
 61 
 
 32 
 
 The Many Mansioned 148 
 House 
 
 The Wing of the Wild 
 Bird 
 
 The Snowflake and 
 Other Poems 
 
 Tangled in Stars 
 
 45 
 108 
 
 43 
 
 54 
 
 no 
 118 
 119 
 127 
 160 
 160 
 
 Dewart's Selection from 105 
 Canadian Poets
 
 Contents 
 
 XIX 
 
 AUSTRALIAN AND NEW ZEALAND AUTHORS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FRANCIS W. ADAMS, Queensland. 
 
 Spring Morning . . . A Century of Austra- 226 
 
 Han Song 
 
 ALEXANDER BATHGATE, N.Z. 
 
 Thie Woman in the Moon . . Far South Fancies 262 
 
 JOHN CHRISTIE, Dunedin, N.Z. 
 
 The Ruined Homestead . . Offerings, 1909 224 
 
 VICTOR DALEY {d. 1905). 
 
 Romance . . . . At Dawn and Dusk 213 
 
 ALFRED DOMETT, N.Z. (1811-1887). 
 
 The Island .... Ranolf and A niohia, 236 
 
 A South Sea Day 
 Dream 
 
 Tangi „ 239 
 
 The Storm .... „ 239 
 
 The Legend of the Tawhaki . ,, 241 
 
 Amohia's Flight ... ,, 244 
 
 GUY EDEN. 
 
 Camp Fire Musings . . . Bush Ballads, igoi 206 
 
 The Stockrider .... „ 208 
 
 The Water- Bellow ... „ 210 
 
 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS. 
 
 The Women of the West . . The Secret Key and 216 
 
 Other Verses 
 
 DUGALD FERGUSON, N.Z. 
 
 The Upper DarUng . . . Poems of the Heart 230 
 
 Mrs. LALA FISHER, Sydney. 
 
 The Reaper . . . . ..... 226 
 
 A. LINDSAY GORDON (1833-1870). 
 
 The Sick Stockrider . . . Bush Ballads and 186 
 
 Galloping Rhymes 
 
 Wolf and Hound ... „ 189 
 
 From the Wreck ... ,, 192 
 
 Whisperings in Wattle Boughs . ,, 195 
 
 HENRY KENDALL (1841-1882). 
 
 Christmas Creek . . . ..... 173 
 
 The Hut bv the Black Swamp I75 
 
 The Warrigal 178 
 
 After Many Years . . i79 
 
 J. LIDDELL KELLY, N.Z. 
 
 Old New Zealand . . . Heather and Fern 232 
 
 The Moa „ 258 
 
 Tahiti „ 259 
 
 The Taniwha .... „ 261 
 
 HENRY LAWSON. 
 
 The Christ of the " Never " . Verse Popular and 205 
 
 Humorous (Angus 
 Robertson and Co., 
 Sydney)
 
 XX 
 
 Contents 
 
 WILL LAWSON, Wellington, N.Z. 
 The Mails .... 
 
 When the Guns go into Battle 
 The Cattle Boats 
 
 DOROTHEA MACKELLAR. 
 
 Settlers ..... 
 September .... 
 
 Colour ..... 
 
 ARTHUR PACHETT MARTIN. 
 
 Babylon ..... 
 
 The Cynic of the Woods 
 
 Over the Sea .... 
 
 ELEANOR E. MONTGOMERY (The Sin 
 To One in England 
 
 FRANK MORTON, Wellington, N.Z. 
 The Ship ..... 
 
 WILL OGILVIE. 
 
 Hearts of Gold .... 
 
 A. B. PATERSON. 
 
 With French to Kimberley . 
 Saltbush Bill . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Stockin' and Other 198 
 Poems, 1909 
 
 
 200 
 203 
 
 The Spectator 
 
 227 
 228 
 229 
 
 The Withered Jester 
 and Other Poems 
 I) 
 
 7t 
 
 217 
 
 218 
 218 
 
 GiNG Shepherd), N.Z. 
 A Century of Austra- 
 lian Song 
 
 231 
 
 Laughter and Tears 
 
 224 
 
 Hearts of Gold (Angus 
 Robertson) 
 
 196 
 
 Rio Grande's Last Race 
 The Man from Snowy 
 
 181 
 183 
 
 River 
 
 MARY H. POYNTER. 
 Slumber Song . 
 
 N.Z. 
 
 W. PEMBER REEVES, 
 New Zealand (1893) . 
 A Colonist in his Garden 
 The Passing of the Forest . 
 
 MARGARET A. SINCLAIR, Auckland, 
 The Low Lintel 
 
 Pohutukawa .... 
 Manuka ..... 
 My Little Maori Axe of Jade 
 Comparison .... 
 A Legend of Hinemoa 
 
 J. BRUNTON STEPHENS. 
 The Dominion 
 
 MARGARET THOMAS. 
 Death in the Bush 
 
 GARNET WALCH. 
 Wool is Up 
 
 Wool is Down . 
 
 A. R. WILLS, N.Z. 
 New Zealand 
 
 A Century of Austra- 
 lian Song 
 
 A Little Tin Plate and 
 Other Poems, 1843 
 
 260 
 
 . 
 
 234 
 
 . 
 
 247 
 
 
 
 250 
 
 N.Z. 
 
 
 The Huiai Homeland 
 
 253 
 
 and Other Verse, 1897 
 
 
 
 253 
 
 
 255 
 
 
 256 
 
 
 257 
 
 
 263 
 
 The Poetical Works of 171 
 
 A Bunch of Wild 
 Pansies 
 
 231 
 
 220 
 
 222 
 
 235
 
 Contents 
 
 XXI 
 
 SOUTH AFRICAN AUTHORS 
 
 Mrs. BEATRICE ALLHUSEN. 
 The Cemetery of the Veld . 
 
 Mrs. MARY BYRON. 
 The Call of the Veld . 
 
 HUGH J. EVANS. 
 My Love Karin 
 
 Veldsingers' Verse 
 
 PAGE 
 
 306 
 
 282 
 
 308 
 
 KINGSLEY FAIRBRIDGE, Cambridge, S.A. 
 
 The Pioneer .... 
 
 Veld Verse and Other 
 Lines 
 
 293 
 
 The Hunting of Shumba 
 Umfeti, the Witch Doctor . 
 The Bastard .... 
 Song of the Africander Woman . 
 Fear ..... 
 
 
 294 
 295 
 298 
 300 
 302 
 
 LANCE FALLAW. 
 
 The Spirit of Hidden Places 
 
 Silver Leaf and Oak 
 
 283 
 
 HENRY MARTYN FOOT. 
 
 Shadow . . . , . 
 
 Cutting Capers 
 
 313 
 
 PERCEVAL GIBBON. 
 
 The Veldt . . . 
 
 E. H. Crouch's 
 Treasury of South 
 African Poetry and 
 Verse 
 
 304 
 
 CULLEN GOULDSBURY. 
 The Pace of the Ox . 
 
 " MOME." 
 Picket 
 
 H. WOODHOUSE NEALE. 
 The Kapji Blue 
 
 THOMAS PRINGLE. 
 
 Afar in the Desert 
 The Coranna 
 
 JOHN RUNCIE. 
 
 A Vision and a Cry 
 
 A Song in Season 
 
 Little Thornback 
 
 Paul Kruger 
 
 Old Kimberley Days 
 
 Adventure 
 
 W. C. SCULLY, Port Elizabeth. 
 Namaqualand . 
 'Nkongane 
 The Bushman's Cave 
 Two Graves 
 Song of the Seasons 
 
 Veldsingers' Verse 
 
 Songs by the Steep 
 
 314 
 
 307 
 
 307 
 
 284 
 286 
 
 271 
 274 
 
 275 
 276 
 277 
 280 
 
 286 
 287 
 288 
 290 
 292
 
 xxii Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 F. C. SLATER. 
 
 " Lala, 'Sana Lwam ! " . . E. H. Crouch's 310 
 
 Treasury of South 
 African Poetry and 
 Verse 
 
 In the Matoppos ... „ 311 
 
 AMY SUTHERLAND. 
 
 The Digger's Song . . . .E. H. Crouch's 312 
 
 Treasury of South 
 African Poetry and 
 Verse 
 " SNEYD." 
 
 Katrina ..... Veldsingers' Verse 309 
 
 FRANCES ERNLEY VVALROND. 
 
 South Africa .... „ 272 
 
 EAST AND WEST INDIAN AUTHORS 
 
 ALIPH CHEEM. 
 
 Perfide Albion .... ./{lysoflnd 336 
 
 ROBY DATTA. 
 
 Good and Bad Thoughts . . Echoes from East and 323 
 
 West, 1905 (from the 
 
 Dhammapada) 
 Songs of Ind .... Echoes from East and 323 
 
 West [from Roby 
 
 Tagore) 
 On Tibet 324 
 
 HENRY LOUIS VIVIAN DEROZIO. 
 
 On the AboUtion of Suttee . 317 
 
 J. K. KENDALL (DumDum). 
 
 The Shores of Nothing . . Rhymes of the East 342 
 
 Kal .... „ 343 
 
 Right Hon. Sir ALFRED COMYN LYALL. 
 
 The Hindu Ascetic . . . Verses written in India 320 
 
 SAROJINI NAIDU. 
 
 The Purdah Nashin . . . The Golden Threshold 321 
 
 Suttee ..... „ 321 
 
 Nightfall in the City of Hyderabad „ 322 
 
 The Indian Gipsy ... „ 322 
 
 C. W. WADDINGTON. 
 
 Cawnpore .... Indian Nile 3 19 
 
 WILLIAM WATERFIELD, Bengal C.S. 
 
 Song of Kcilindi . . . Indian Ballads, 1885 325 
 
 The Lamentation of Aga . . „ 327 
 
 R. GRANT BROWN, Burma. 
 
 A Lover's Lament . . . Translations of Bur- 329 
 
 mese Songs 
 In the Forest .... „ 329 
 
 Love-Ditty .... „ 330
 
 Contents 
 
 XXlll 
 
 M. C. CONWAY POOLE (Oolay). 
 Vale! .... 
 
 Audi et Alteram Partem 
 A Lay of the Derby Sweep . 
 
 Ballads of Burma 
 
 PAGE 
 
 330 
 331 
 333 
 
 JAMAICA 
 
 HENRY SHIRLEY BUNBURY. 
 The West Indies 
 The Joys of Jamaica . 
 
 J. H. MACDERMOT (Tom Redcam) 
 The Mothers of the City 
 
 CLAUDE McKAY. 
 KiUin' Nanny . 
 Cudjoe Fresh from de Lecture 
 
 "TROPICA." 
 
 The North to the South 
 
 The South to the North 
 
 352 
 
 352 
 
 Kingston. 
 
 Songs of Kingston City 353 
 
 Songs of Jamaica 
 
 356 
 
 357 
 
 This Island of Sun- 355 
 shine 
 
 356 
 
 CEYLON 
 
 BEL. 
 
 The Taj at Agra 
 
 E. C. DUMBLETON. 
 The Tamil Maid 
 
 S. HELEN GOONETILLAKE. 
 A Sanskrit Stanza 
 
 H. W. GREEN, Ceylon C.S. 
 Ganessa the God 
 
 WILLIAM SKEEN, Colombo, 1868. 
 Lanka (Ceylon) 
 The Knuckles . 
 
 J. H. S. 
 
 By Kandy Lake. 
 
 R. GREENTREE, Malay States. 
 KrSmat .... 
 
 Malacca .... 
 
 T. J. Tambyah's 348 
 Garland of Ceylon 
 Verse 
 
 349 
 
 350 
 
 T. J, Tambyah's 348 
 Garland of Ceylon 
 Verse 
 
 344 
 
 Mountain Life and 345 
 Coffee Cultivation 
 in Ceylon 
 
 T. J. Tambyah's 347 
 Garland of Ceylon 
 Verse 
 
 Poems of the Malay 350 
 Peninsula 
 
 351
 
 CANADIAN POETRY
 
 CANADIAN POETRY 
 
 A HYMN OF EMPIRE 
 
 Lord, by whose might the Heavens stand, 
 
 The source from whom they came, 
 Who holdeth nations in Thy hand, 
 
 And call'st the stars by name. 
 Thine ageless forces do not cease 
 
 To mould us as of yore — 
 The chiselling of the arts of peace, 
 
 The anvil strokes of war. 
 
 Then bind our realms in brotherhood, 
 
 Firm laws and equal rights, 
 Let each uphold the Empire's good 
 
 In freedom that unites; 
 And make that speech whose thunders roll 
 
 Down the broad stream of time, 
 The harbinger from pole to pole 
 
 Of love and peace sublime. 
 
 Lord, turn the hearts of cowards who prate. 
 
 Afraid to dare or spend. 
 The doctrine of a narrower state 
 
 More easy to defend ; 
 Not this the watchword of our sires 
 
 Who breathed with Ocean's breath. 
 Not this our spirit's ancient fires 
 
 Which naught could quench but death. 
 
 Strong are we? Make us stronger yet; 
 
 Great ? Make us greater far. 
 Our feet Antarctic Oceans fret. 
 
 Our crown the polar star; 
 Round Earth's wild coasts our batteries speak. 
 
 Our highway is the main, 
 We stand as guardian of the weak, 
 
 We burst the oppressor's chain. 
 3
 
 A Song of Canada 
 
 Great God, uphold us in our task, 
 
 Keep firm and clear our rule, 
 Silence the honeyed words which mask 
 
 The wisdom of the fool. 
 The pillars of the world are thine; 
 
 Pour down thy bounteous grace, 
 And make illustrious and divine 
 
 The sceptre of our race. 
 
 Frederick George Scott. 
 
 A SONG OF CANADA 
 
 Sing me a song of the Great Dominion! 
 Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear 1 
 Ring out boldly the well-turned measure, 
 Voicing your notes that the world may hear; 
 Here is no starveling — heaven forsaken — 
 Shrinking aside where the nations throng; 
 Proud as the proudest moves she among them- 
 Worthy is she of a noble song ! 
 
 Sing me the might of her giant mountains, 
 Baring their brows in the dazzling blue; 
 Changeless alone, when all else changes. 
 Emblems of all that is grand and true : 
 Free as the eagle around them soaring; 
 Fair as they rose from their Maker's hand; 
 Shout till the snow-caps catch the chorus — 
 The white-tipped peaks of our mountain land ! 
 
 Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests, 
 Silence eternal, and peace profound, 
 Into whose great heart's deep recesses 
 Breaks no tempest and comes no sound; 
 Face to face with the deathlike stillness. 
 There, if at all, a man's soul might quail: 
 Nay! 'tis the love of that great peace leads us 
 Thither, where solace will never fail ! 
 
 Sing me the pride of her stately rivers. 
 Cleaving their way to the far-off sea;
 
 A Song of Canada 
 
 Glory of strength in their deep-mouthed music — 
 Glory of mirth in their tameless glee. 
 Hark ! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids ; 
 Deep unto deep through the dead night calls; 
 Truly, I hear but the voice of Freedom 
 Shouting her name from her fortress walls ! 
 
 Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies, 
 League upon league of the golden grain : 
 Comfort housed in the smiling homestead — 
 Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain. 
 Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you. 
 Never war's flag on your plains unfurl'd 
 Only the blessings of mankind reach you — 
 Finding the food for a hungry world ! 
 
 Sing me the charm of her blazing camp-fires ; 
 Sing me the quiet of her happy homes, 
 Whether afar 'neath the forest arches, 
 Or in the shade of the city's domes; 
 Sing me her life, her loves, her labours, 
 All of a mother a son would hear; 
 For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding. 
 Sweet are the strains to a lover's ear ! 
 
 Sing me the worth of each Canadian, 
 Roamer in wilderness, toiler in town — 
 Search earth over you'll find no stauncher. 
 Whether his hands be white or brown; 
 Come of a right good stock to start with. 
 Best of the world's blood in each vein; 
 Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one. 
 For us, or from us, you'll find we're — MEN. 
 
 Sing me the song, then; sing it bravely; 
 Put your soul in the words you sing; 
 Sing me the praise of this glorious country — 
 Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring. 
 Here is no starveling — heaven-forsaken — 
 Crouching apart where the nations throng; 
 Proud as the proudest moves she among them — 
 Well is she worthy a noble song ! 
 
 Robert Reid.
 
 Dominion Da 
 
 y 
 
 DOMINION DAY 
 
 WiTV[/eu-de-joie ,Sind merry bells, and cannons' thundering peal, 
 And pennons fluttering on the breeze, and serried rows of 
 
 steel, 
 We greet, again, the birthday morn of our young giant's land. 
 From the Atlantic stretching wide to far Pacific strand; 
 With flashing river, ocean lakes, and prairies wide and free, 
 And waterfalls, and forests dim, and mountains by the sea; 
 A country on whose birth-hour smiled the genius of romance. 
 Above whose cradle brave hands waved the lily-cross of 
 
 France ; 
 Whose infancy was grimly nursed in peril, pain, and woe; 
 Where gallant hearts found early graves beneath Canadian 
 
 snow; 
 Where savage raid and ambuscade and famine's sore distress, 
 Combined their strength, in vain, to crush the dauntless 
 
 French noblesse; 
 When her dim trackless forest lured, again, and yet again. 
 From silken courts of sunny France, her flower, the brave 
 
 Cham plain. 
 And now her proud traditions boast from blazoned rolls of 
 
 fame — 
 Crecy's and Flodden's deadly foes our ancestors we claim; 
 Past feud and battle buried far behind the peaceful years, 
 While Gaul and Celt and Briton turn to pruning hooks their 
 
 spears; 
 Four nations welded into one — with long historic past, 
 Have found, in these our western wilds, one common life at 
 
 last; 
 Through the young giant's mighty limbs, that stretch from 
 
 sea to sea, 
 There runs a throb of conscious life — of waking energy. 
 From Nova Scotia's misty coast to far Columbia's shore, 
 She wakes — a band of scattered homes and colonies no more. 
 But a young nation, with her life full beating in her breast, 
 A noble future in her eyes — the Britain of the West. 
 Heir to the noble task to fill the yet untrodden plains 
 With fruitful, many-sided life that courses through her veins; 
 The English honour, nerve, and pluck — the Scotsman's love 
 
 of right —
 
 Mother and Son 7 
 
 The grace and courtesy of France, — the Irish fancy bright, — 
 The Saxon's faithful love of home, and home's affections 
 
 blest ; 
 And chief of all our holy faith — of all our treasures best. 
 A people poor in pomp and state, but rich in noble deeds, 
 Holding that righteousness exalts the people it leads. 
 As yet the waxen mould is soft, the opening page is fair; 
 It rests with those who rule us now to leave the impress there, 
 The stamp of true nobility, high honour, stainless truth; 
 The earnest quest of noble ends ; the generous heart of youth ; 
 The love of country, soaring far above dull party strife; 
 The love of learning, art, and song — the crowning grace of 
 
 life; 
 The love of science, soaring far through Nature's hidden ways ; 
 The love and fear of Nature's God — a nation's highest praise. 
 So in the long hereafter, this Canada shall be 
 The worthy heir of British power and British liberty; 
 Spreading the blessings of her sway to her remotest bounds. 
 While, with the fame of her fair name, a continent resounds, 
 True to her high traditions, to Britain's ancient glory 
 Of patient saint and martyr, alive in deathless story; 
 Strong in their liberty and truth, to shed from shore to shore 
 A light among the nations, till nations are no more. 
 
 Agnes Maude Machar. 
 
 MOTHER AND SON 
 
 The mother was rich and gracious, and the son was strong 
 
 and bold. 
 And the bond that was fixed between them was not the bond 
 
 of gold ; 
 And they dwelt in sweet co-union, while the world looked on 
 
 in awe, 
 For they lived and wrought by the Law of Love, and not by 
 
 the Love of Law. 
 
 The mother was old in the years of man, but young in the 
 
 years of time. 
 And her face was fair and her arm was strong as a strong man 
 
 in his prime;
 
 8 Mother and Son 
 
 And some who said, " She weakens, her day is nearly 
 
 done," 
 So spake because they wished it ; her day was scarce begun. 
 And the mother said, " I have given you much, good gifts of 
 
 honest worth, 
 A name that is known and honoured in the corners of the 
 
 earth ; 
 A tongue that is strong and elastic, a law that is just and 
 
 sound. 
 And the right of a man to be a man wherever my flag is 
 
 found. 
 
 " The paths go down to the future, and the paths are yours 
 
 to choose, 
 There's all for you to profit, there's all for you to lose — 
 For the eye of the race is onward, nor yet is the law 
 
 recast. 
 That youth shall live in the future, and age shall live in the 
 
 past." 
 
 On the swarthy cheek of the stalwart son there deepened a 
 
 dye of shame — 
 " Mother, were I so base I should belie my mother's name. 
 The road may lead to the mountain-tops, or the nethermost 
 
 depths of hell; 
 Even so; and if so you travel it, I travel the road as well. 
 
 " Ere yet I had learned in a foreign tongue to babble your 
 
 name with pride. 
 They thought in the guise of a common cause to wheedle me 
 
 from your side, 
 But I scorned the bribe of lust and power — for I read the 
 
 rogues aright — 
 And I fought for you in my swaddling-clothes, as only a child 
 
 can fight ! 
 
 " 'Twas not for my own existence — I had no fear for that — 
 For I was lean and unlikely, and they were full of fat; 
 But the blood — and the sense of honour — and the duty of 
 
 the son — 
 'Twas these that clutched at a weapon and battled them ten 
 
 to one !
 
 Jacques Cartier 9 
 
 " Think not because life is rosy that I know not what it cost — 
 
 I knew when I fell to the Ridgeway fiends, or lay in the North- 
 shore frost; 
 
 I knew in the flush of triumph — I knew when I fought in 
 vain — 
 
 And the blood that was spilled at Paardeberg was the blood 
 of Lundy's Lane ! 
 
 " Then lead, and your son will follow, or follow and he will 
 
 lead. 
 And side by side, though the world deride, we will show by 
 
 word and deed, 
 That you share with me my youthfulness, and I with you 
 
 your prime. 
 And so it shall be till the sun shall set on the uttermost edge 
 
 of time." 
 
 R. C. Stead. 
 
 JACQUES CARTIER 
 
 In the seaport of Saint Malo 'twas a smiling morn in May, 
 When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed 
 
 away; 
 In the crowded old cathedral all the town were on their knees 
 For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscovered seas; 
 And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier 
 Filled manly hearts with sorrow, and gentle hearts with fear. 
 
 A year passed o'er Saint Malo — again came round the day 
 When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed 
 
 away; 
 But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went. 
 And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent; 
 And manly hearts were filled with gloom, and gentle hearts 
 
 with fear 
 WTien no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year. 
 
 But the earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side, 
 And the captain of Saint Malo was rejoicing in his pride 
 In the forests of the North — while his townsmen mourned 
 his loss,
 
 lo Jacques Cartier 
 
 He was rearing on Mount Royal the Fleur-de-lis and Cross ; 
 And when the months were over, and added to the year, 
 Saint Malo hailed him home again, cheer answering to cheer. 
 
 He told them of a region, hard iron-bound and cold, 
 Nor seas of pearls abounded, nor mines of shining gold. 
 Where the wind from Thulc freezes the word upon the lip. 
 And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship; 
 He told them of the frozen scene until they thrilled with fear, 
 And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make them better cheer. 
 
 But when he changed the strain — he told how soon is cast 
 In early spring the fetters that hold the waters fast; 
 How the winter causeway broken is drifted out to sea. 
 And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the 
 
 free; 
 How the magic wand of summer clad the landscape to his 
 
 eyes, 
 Like the dry bones of the just, when they wake in paradise. 
 
 He told them of the Alonquin braves — the hunters of the wild, 
 
 Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child; 
 
 Of how, poor souls, they fancy in every living thing; 
 
 A spirit good or evil that claims their worshipping; 
 
 Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to 
 
 breathe upon. 
 And of the wonders wrought for them thro' the gospel of 
 
 St. John. 
 
 He told them of the river whose mighty current gave 
 Its freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean's briny wave; 
 He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight, 
 What time he reared the cross and crown on Hochelaga's 
 
 height, 
 And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key : 
 And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils over 
 
 sea. 
 
 Hon. T. D. McGee.
 
 Puritan Planters, 1760 11 
 
 CARTIER ARRIVES AT STADACONA 
 
 At Stadacona half the sky 
 
 Was crimsoned with the sunset's dye; 
 
 The river streaked with gold, 
 The broad St. Lawrence, in the pride 
 Of countless forests by his tide, 
 
 Out to the ocean rolled. 
 
 They stood on Stadacona's steep 
 
 And gazed towards the boundless deep, 
 
 Did Donnacona's braves; 
 In awe they looked, these savage men, 
 To where within their piercing ken 
 
 White wings flew o'er the wave. 
 
 In wonderment they peered, and still 
 The sea's strange pinions came, until 
 
 They flung full on the view, 
 Then Donnacona, he, the wise. 
 Said these are spirits from the skies 
 
 Sent by the Manitou. 
 
 The night crouched in the flapping sails. 
 The wind roared down the forest trails. 
 
 The river dirged amain. 
 And Donnacona dreamed that night 
 The world through all the year was white — 
 
 In sleep he sobbed for pain. 
 
 William T. Allison. 
 
 PURITAN PLANTERS, 1760 1 
 
 The rocky slopes for emerald had changed their garb of gray 
 When the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the Bay, 
 There were diamonds on every wave that drew the strangers on. 
 And bands of sapphire mist about the brows of Blomidon. 
 
 ^ To commemorate the settlement by New England people of the 
 French lands, after the Acadians had been driven away.
 
 12 Puritan Planters, 1760 
 
 Five years in desolation the Acadian land had lain, 
 
 Five golden harvest moons had wooed the fallow fields in 
 
 vain, 
 Five times the winter snows had slept and summer sunsets 
 
 smiled 
 On lonely clumps of willow, and fruit trees growing wild. 
 
 There was silence in the forest and along the Minas Shore, 
 And not a habitation from Canard to Beau Sejour, 
 But many a blackened rafter and many a broken wall 
 Told the story of Acadia's prosperity and fall; 
 
 And even in Nature's gladness in the matchless month of 
 
 June, 
 When every day she swept her harp and found the strmgs 
 
 in tune. 
 The land seemed calling wildly for its owners far away, 
 The exiles scattered on the coast, from Maine to Charlestown 
 
 Bay. 
 
 Where, with many bitter longings for their fair homes and 
 
 their dead. 
 They bowed their heads in anguish and would not be 
 
 comforted. 
 And like the Jewish exiles, long ago, beyond the sea. 
 Refused to sing the songs of home in their captivity. 
 
 But the simple Norman peasant-folk shall till the land no 
 
 more. 
 For the vessels from Connecticut have anchored by the shore. 
 And many a sturdy Puritan, his mind with scripture stored, 
 Rejoices he has found at last " the garden of the Lord." 
 
 There are families from Tolland, from Killingworth and 
 
 Lyme, 
 Gentle mothers, tender maidens, and strong men in their 
 
 prime ; 
 There are lovers who have plighted their vows in Coventry, 
 And sweet, confiding children, born in Newport by the sea. 
 
 They come as came the Hebrews into their promised land. 
 Not as to rough New England shores came first the Pilgrim 
 band;
 
 Puritan Planters, 1760 13 
 
 The Minas fields were fruitful, and the Gaspereau had borne 
 To seaward many a vessel with its freight of yellow com. 
 
 They came with hearts as true as are their manners blunt 
 
 and cold, 
 To found a race of noble men of Calvinistic mould, 
 A race of earnest people whom the coming years shall teach 
 The broader ways of knowledge, and the gentler forms of 
 
 speech. 
 
 They come as Puritans, but who shall say their hearts are 
 
 blind 
 To the subtle charms of nature, and the love of human kind? 
 The rigorous New England laws have shaped their thought, 
 
 'tis true, 
 But human laws can never wholly Heaven's work undo. 
 
 And tears fall fast from 'many an eye, long time unused to 
 
 weep, 
 For o'er the fields lie whitening the bones of cows and sheep. 
 The faithful cows that used to feed upon the broad Grand Pre, 
 And, with their tinkling bells, come slowly home at close of 
 
 day. 
 
 And where the Acadian village stood, its roofs o'ergrown 
 
 with moss. 
 And the simple wooden chapel, with its altar and its cross. 
 And where the forge of Basil sent its sparks toward the sky. 
 The purple thistle blossoms, and the pink fireweed grows high. 
 
 The broken dykes have been rebuilt, a century and more. 
 The cornfields stretch their furrows from Canard to Beau 
 
 Sejour, 
 Five generations have been reared beside the broad Grand Pre, 
 Since the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the Bay. 
 
 And now across the meadows, while the farmers reap and sow. 
 The engine shrieks its discord to the bells of Gaspereau, 
 And ever onward to the sea, the restless Fundy tide 
 Bears playful pleasure yachts and busy trade ships side by 
 side.
 
 14 L'Isle Saint Croix 
 
 And the Puritan has yielded to the softening hand of time, 
 Like him, who still content, remained in Killingworth and 
 
 Lyme, 
 And graceful homes of prosperous men make all the landscape 
 
 fair. 
 And mellow creeds and ways of life are rooted every^vhere. 
 
 And churches nestle lovingly on many a glad hillside. 
 
 And holy bells ring out their music in the eventide; 
 
 But here and there on untilled ground, apart from glebe or 
 
 town, 
 Some lone surviving apple-tree stands blossomless and brown. 
 
 And many a traveller has found in summer, as he strayed, 
 Some long forgotten cellar in the deepest thicket's shade. 
 And clumps of willows by the dykes, sweet scented, fair, and 
 
 green, 
 That seemed to tell again the story of Evangelme. 
 
 L'ISLE SAINT CROIX 
 The first French settlement in America was made here in 1604. 
 
 With tangle branches overgrown. 
 And here and there a lofty pine. 
 Among whose forms strange creepers twine, 
 
 And crags that mock the wild seas' moan, 
 
 And little bays where no ships come, 
 Though many a white sail passes by, 
 And many a drifting cloud on high. 
 
 Looks down and shames the sleeping foam. 
 
 Unconscious on the waves it lies 
 
 While mid the golden reeds and sedge 
 That southward line the water's edge 
 
 The thrush sings his shrill melodies. 
 
 No human dwelling now is seen 
 Upon its rude, unfertile slopes,
 
 L'Isle Saint Croix 15 
 
 Though many a summer traveller gropes 
 For ruins mid the tangled green^ 
 
 And seeks upon the northern shore 
 
 The graves of that adventurous band 
 
 That followed to the Acadian land 
 Champlain^ De Monts, and Poutrincourt. 
 
 There stood the ancient fort that sent 
 Fierce cannon echoes through the wold, 
 There waved the Bourbon flag that told 
 
 The mastery of a continent ; 
 
 There through the pines the echoing wail 
 Of ghostly winds was heard at eve, 
 And hoarse, deep sounds like those that heave 
 
 The breasts of stricken warriors pale. 
 
 There Huguenots and cassocked priests 
 
 And noble-born and sons of toil. 
 
 Together worked the barren soil, 
 And shared each other's frugal feasts. 
 
 And dreamed beneath the yellow moon 
 
 Of golden reapings that should be. 
 
 Conjuring from the sailless sea 
 A glad, prophetic harvest tune. 
 
 Till stealthy winter through the reeds 
 
 Crept, crystal-footed, to the shore, 
 
 And to the little hamlet bore 
 His hidden freight of deathly seeds. 
 
 Spring came at last, and o'er the waves, 
 
 The welcome sail of Pontgrave 
 
 But half the number silent lay, 
 Death's pale first fruits, in western graves. 
 
 Sing on, wild sea, your sad refrain . 
 
 For all the gallant sons of France, 
 
 Whose songs and sufferings enhance 
 The witchery of the western main.
 
 1 6 Old Wharves 
 
 Keep kindly watch upon the strand 
 Where He in hidden mounds, secure, 
 The men De Monts and Poutrincourt 
 
 First led to the Acadian land. 
 
 PORT ROYAL 
 
 About this ancient earth-work and this wall, 
 Where rude spiked gates on heavy hinges hung, 
 The shouts of armies many a time have rung. 
 And thunderous cannon sounded loud o'er alU 
 Here night and morn the echoing bugle call 
 Close to the farthest wooded hill-tops clung, 
 Here with her lilies to the breezes flung, 
 France held Acadia in romantic thrall. 
 Here Bourbon nobles carved the fleur-de-lis, 
 And waved the white flag of the Bourbon kings; 
 Here Acadie's first convert, Membertou, 
 The aged Micmac chieftain, bent the knee 
 To Christ; and here on wide-expanded wings 
 The hostile fleets of British sovereigns flew. 
 
 OLD WHARVES (OF HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA). 
 
 Half a century ago. 
 
 On the tides that shoreward swept, 
 Merchant vessels, swift or slow. 
 
 To the harbour leapt or crept. 
 
 From the fertile Indian Isles 
 In hot Southern seas they came. 
 
 Over Ocean's countless miles, 
 With red sunset fires aflame. 
 
 Fruited cargoes here they brought, 
 
 Guava, ginger, fig, and prune, 
 Rice and spice and rare birds caught 
 
 In the sluggish tropic noon.
 
 Old Wharves 17 
 
 These old wharves re-echoed then 
 
 All the sounds of seaport trade, 
 Pulleys plied by strong-armed men, 
 
 Noisy anchors cast and weighed ; 
 
 Crashing, carrying, cheering loud, 
 
 Wild discordant bawl and brawl. 
 Black and white, a motley crowd — 
 
 Ah, but how men loved it all ! 
 
 And the masts that hedged the town 
 How they creaked in every breeze, 
 
 Standing bold and bare and brown, 
 Like uimumbered forest trees. 
 
 Proud old wharves, so silent now. 
 
 Haughtier in your grim decay 
 Than when many a princely prow 
 
 Sought you from the lower bay. 
 
 Symbols of dead dreams are ye, 
 
 Figures of the phantom piers 
 Where we made so buoyantly 
 
 Anchor in our earlier years. 
 
 Yet the barren tides that creep 
 
 Up the harbour night and mom. 
 Plunge and plash and laugh and leap 
 
 Round your bases old and worn. 
 
 Nothing now of sadness bear, 
 
 For our barks have found since youth 
 
 Roomier wharves, in harbours where 
 They may anchor fast to truth. 
 
 Till Time's petty traffic done, 
 
 All the bawl and brawl and strife. 
 Happier voyages are begun 
 
 To the shores of endless life. 
 Arthur Wentworth Hamilton Eaton, 
 
 B
 
 1 8 At Quebec 
 
 MONTREAL 
 
 Hail to thee, Royal city ! Like a queen 
 Thou sittest on thy throne in royal state, 
 Ruling thy servitors that on thee wait, 
 With courtly dignity and noble mien. 
 Under thy canopy of maple green 
 Thou takest tribute at thy castle's gate, 
 Borne in by white-winged messengers, and great 
 Their golden store ; but richer far I ween 
 Thou art in loyal hearts that beat for thee; 
 That turn to thee as pilgrim to a shrine. 
 Or wanderer in foreign lands toward home. 
 Wealthy in memories; thou hast the key 
 To treasures of a storied past, a mine 
 Of riches for thy sons in time to come. 
 
 S. M. Baylis. 
 
 AT QUEBEC 
 
 Quebec, the grey old city on the hill. 
 
 Lies with a golden glory on her head. 
 
 Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still. 
 
 Of other days and all her mighty dead. 
 
 The white doves perch upon the cannons grim. 
 
 The flowers bloom where once did run a tide 
 
 Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim 
 
 Above the battlefield so grim and wide. 
 
 Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow 
 
 Of pride, of tenderness — her stormy past — 
 
 The strife, the valour, of the long ago 
 
 Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast. 
 
 She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, 
 
 A wondrous softness in her grey old face. 
 
 Jean Blewett.
 
 I've Wandered in the Sunny South 19 
 
 VANCOUVER 
 
 Sea-Room ! Sea- room ! Out of the forest gloom 
 
 She hath hewn her way to the light of day, where the 
 
 peaceful gardens bloom, 
 And the toils and tears of her pioneers, from Fraser to 
 Nicolum, 
 O'er the trail they blazed this monument raised to last till 
 the crash of doom — 
 Vancouver, mart of the nations, 
 A city of sure foundations. 
 Quest of the generations ! 
 Sea-Room ! Sea-Room ! for the vessel's close-packed hold. 
 Flying the flag of England, is freighted with wealth untold. 
 We were nursed on the breast of our Middle West, and the 
 
 fruit of their husbandry, 
 Hoard upon hoard, is laid aboard at the wharves by the 
 Western Sea. 
 
 Sea-Room ! Sea-room ! for the vessel is under way. 
 Bearing the British banner to the confines of the day: 
 For West is East, and East is West, and the best is yet to 
 
 be— 
 Star of the night, flung far from light, Vancouver, Star 
 
 of the Sea ! 
 
 A. N. St. John Mildmay. 
 
 I'VE WANDERED IN THE SUNNY SOUTH 
 
 I've wandered in the sunny South, 
 
 Beneath its purple skies; 
 And roamed through many a far-off land, 
 
 Where cloudless beauty lies; 
 I've breathed the balm of tropic eves, 
 
 Upon the Southern sea; 
 And watched the glorious sunset form 
 
 Its radiance far and free.
 
 20 How They Died at Thansi 
 
 But give me still my Northern home — 
 
 Her islands and her lakes; 
 And her forests old, where not a sound 
 
 The tomb-like silence breaks. 
 More lovely in her snowy dress. 
 
 Or in her vesture green, 
 Than all the pride of Europe's lands, 
 
 Or Asia's glittering sheen. 
 
 I've basked beneath Italian suns, 
 
 When flowers were in their bloom ; 
 And I've wandered o'er the hills of Greece 
 
 By ruined shrine and tomb; 
 Oh, sweet it was to gaze upon 
 
 The Arno's silver tide — 
 And dearer still, the ruins grey 
 
 Of Athens' fallen pride. 
 
 But dearer unto me that land 
 
 Which the mighty waters lave, 
 Where the spreading maple's glorious hues 
 
 Are mirrored in the wave ; 
 Where music from the dark, old woods 
 
 Ascends to heaven's dome — 
 Like angel hymns of peace and love — 
 
 Around my Northern home. 
 
 John F. McDonnell. 
 
 HOW THEY DIED AT THANSI i 
 
 Scotland ! Mother of brave men. 
 
 Who battled for the right, 
 Whose glory gilds thy wildest glen. 
 
 And sternest mountain height, 
 And shines o'er many a distant land. 
 
 Where Scottish lays proclaim 
 
 ' When the Indian insurrection took place at Thansi, Captain 
 Alexander Skene and his wife took refuge in a tower and made a brave 
 and protracted defence, Mrs. Skene loading her husband's rifle. He 
 fired till he had shot thirty-nine rebels, when finding it impossible to 
 keep them out any longer, he kissed his wife, shot her, and then shot 
 himself.
 
 How They Died at Thansi 21 
 
 The worth of that immortal band 
 Which thou hast given to fame. 
 
 Men of free thought and lofty deed, 
 
 Firm, steadfast, strong, and true. 
 Who never in the hour of need 
 
 A craven terror knew, 
 For liberty and thee they fought. 
 
 They struggled, suffered, died; 
 And left the noble deeds they wrought 
 
 To crown thy brows with pride. 
 
 A proud, glad mother thou should'st be, 
 
 For still each gallant son 
 That glory safely guards for thee 
 
 Their elder brothers won. 
 The free and fearless blood that flamed 
 
 Of old in Scottish veins. 
 By no fierce tyrant ever tamed. 
 
 Its ancient fire retains. 
 
 Not theirs the limbs that fly or yield ; 
 
 That dauntless hardihood. 
 Which once on Bannockburn's red field 
 
 An English host withstood, 
 Held firm on that Crimean plain, 
 
 Where Russian horse assailed 
 Brave Campbell's iron men in vain — 
 
 In valour triple mailed. 
 
 Still these fought by their comrades' side 
 
 Against an equal foe, 
 With all those aids to manly pride 
 
 Brothers-in-arms bestow; 
 But he whose sad, heroic fate 
 
 Thrills all who hear it told; 
 Whose death in grandeur well may mate 
 
 Some hero's death of old, 
 
 A hopeless strife could calmly dare 
 With one slight hand to aid,
 
 22 How They Died at Thansi 
 
 One tender woman's heart to share 
 
 The gallant stand he made, 
 And bravely did she bear her part, 
 
 What woman ever fails 
 When love has strung and nerved her heart? 
 
 Love over death prevails. 
 
 But there are evils worse than death ! 
 
 Insult and outrage dread. 
 The writhing, yelling fiends beneath 
 
 May wreak upon her head : 
 " No, never! we know how to die! " 
 
 He turned to her and caught 
 A radiant flash from her bright eye 
 
 That answered to his thought. 
 
 " Yes ! let us die unsullied, free, 
 
 Father, hear our cry ! 
 Save these two souls that trust in thee. 
 
 To thee for refuge fly!" 
 He kissed her with a fonder kiss, 
 
 A truer, nobler pride. 
 Than ever in hours of peaceful bliss 
 
 A bridegroom kissed his bride. 
 
 " True heart! so tender and so brave. 
 
 My faithful, loving wife, 
 This hand, though powerless now to save, 
 
 Still guards thy better life. 
 Our souls shall find a home in heaven; 
 
 My rifle still rings true; 
 I murmur not, since God has given 
 
 A brave death shared with you ! " 
 
 In his firm hand his rifle good 
 
 Had failed not once that day. 
 Its dreaded aim that demon brood 
 
 Still kept at furious bay. 
 It failed not now — without a pang 
 
 Her pure, brave spirit fled. 
 Again the unerring bullet rang — 
 
 He too had joined the dead.
 
 Laura Secord 23 
 
 Give honour to these noble hearts; 
 
 Bravely and well they died ; 
 The tear that to their memory starts 
 
 In proud content is dried. 
 With Scotland's bravest and her best 
 
 She'll give them place, I ween, 
 And deep within her granite breast 
 
 She'll grave the name of Skene ! 
 
 Miss Murray. 
 
 LAURA SECORD 
 
 During the so-called war of 1812-14 between England and the United 
 States, Laura Secord, the wife of a crippled British veteran, saved 
 the British forces from a surprise and possible destruction by the 
 heroic action narrated in the ballad. Her home lay near the 
 celebrated Queenston Heights, a few miles from the Falls of 
 Niagara. 
 
 Softly the spell of moonlight fell 
 
 On the swift river's flow, 
 On the gray crags of Queenston Height, 
 
 And the green waves below. 
 
 Alone the whip-poor-will's sad cry 
 Blent with the murmuring pines. 
 
 Save where the sentry paced his rounds 
 Along th' invading lines. 
 
 But in one lowly cottage home 
 
 Were trouble and dismay; 
 The anxious watchers could not sleep 
 
 For tidings heard that day. 
 
 Brave James Secord, with troubled heart, 
 
 And weary, crippled frame, 
 That bore the scars of Queenston Heights, 
 
 Back to his cottage came. 
 
 For he had learned a dark design 
 
 Fitzgibbon to surprise. 
 As with a handful of brave men 
 
 At Beaver Dam he lies.
 
 24 Laura Secord 
 
 " And Boerstler, with eight hundred men, 
 
 Is moving from the shore 
 To steal upon our outpost there, 
 
 Guarded by scarce two score ! 
 
 " Then wiping out, as well he may. 
 
 That gallant little band. 
 The foe will sweep his onward way 
 
 O'er the defenceless land. 
 
 " Then noble Brock had died in vain — 
 
 If but Fitzgibbon knew! " 
 And the poor cripple's heart is fain 
 
 To press the journey through. 
 
 But Laura, bending o'er her babes. 
 Said, smiling through her tears : 
 
 " These are not times for brave men's wives 
 To yield to craven fears. 
 
 " You cannot go to warn our men, 
 
 Or slip the outpost through; 
 But if perchance they let me pass, 
 
 This errand I will do." 
 
 She soothed his anxious doubts and fears; 
 
 She knew the forest way; 
 She put her trust in Him who hears 
 
 His children when they pray ! 
 
 Soon as the rosy flush of dawn 
 Glanced through the purple air. 
 
 She rose to household tasks — and kissed 
 Her babes with whispered prayer. 
 
 To milk her grazing cow she went; 
 
 The sentry at the lines 
 Forgot to watch, as both were lost 
 
 Amid the sheltering pines. 
 
 The rising sun's first golden rays 
 Gleamed through the forest dim,
 
 Laura Secord 25 
 
 And through its leafy arches rang 
 The bird's sweet morning hymn. 
 
 The fragrant odour of the pines, 
 
 The carols gay and sweet, 
 Gave courage to the fluttering heart, 
 
 And strength to faltering feet. 
 
 And on she pressed, with steadfast tread. 
 
 Her solitary way 
 O'er tangled brake and sodden swamp 
 
 Through all the sultry day. 
 
 Though, for the morning songs of birds 
 
 She heard the wolf's hoarse cry. 
 And saw the rattlesnake glide forth, 
 
 As swift she hurried by. 
 
 Nor dark morass nor rushing stream 
 
 Could balk the steadfast will. 
 Nor pleading voice of anxious friends 
 
 Where stood St. David's Hill. 
 
 The British sentry heard her tale. 
 
 And cheered her on her way; 
 But bade her 'ware the Indian scouts 
 
 Who in the covert lay. 
 
 Anon, as crushed a rotten bough 
 
 Beneath her wary feet. 
 She heard their war-whoop through the gloom, 
 
 Their steps advancing fleet. 
 
 But quickly to the questioning chief 
 
 She told her errand grave 
 How she had walked the live-long day 
 
 Fitzgibbon's men to save ! 
 
 The redskin heard, and kindly gazed 
 
 Upon the pale-faced squaw; 
 Her faithful courage touched his heart, 
 
 Her weary look he saw.
 
 2 6 Laura Secord 
 
 " Me go with you " was all he said, 
 
 And through the forest gray- 
 He led her safe to Beaver Dam 
 
 Where brave Fitzgibbon lay. 
 
 With throbbing heart she told her tale; 
 
 They heard with anxious heed, 
 And knew how grave the crisis was, 
 
 How urgent was the need ! 
 
 Then there was riding far and near, 
 
 And mustering to and fro 
 Of troops and Indians from the rear 
 
 To meet the coming foe; 
 
 And such the bold determined stand 
 Those few brave soldiers made — 
 
 So fiercely fought the Indian band 
 From forest ambuscade — 
 
 That Boerstler in the first surprise 
 
 Surrendered in despair, 
 To force so small it scarce could serve 
 
 To keep the prisoners there ! 
 
 While the brave, weary messenger 
 
 In dreamless slumber lay 
 And woke to find her gallant friends 
 
 Were masters of the fray. 
 
 If e'er Canadian courage fail, 
 
 Or loyalty grow cold. 
 Or nerveless grow Canadian hearts. 
 
 Then be the story told — 
 
 How British gallantry and skill 
 There played their noblest part. 
 
 Yet scarce had won if there had failed 
 One woman's dauntless heart. 
 
 Agnes Maude Machar.
 
 Madeleine de Vercheres 27 
 
 MADELEINE DE VERCHERES 
 
 I 
 
 " OH; my country, bowed in anguish 'neath a weight of bitter 
 
 woe, 
 Who shall save thee from the vengeance of the desolating 
 
 foe? 
 They have sworn a heathen oath that every Christian soul 
 
 must die — 
 God of heaven, in mercy shield us ! Father, hear thy children's 
 
 cry." 
 
 II 
 
 Thus prayed Madeleine, the daughter of an old heroic line — 
 Grecian poet had he seen her must have deemed her face 
 
 divine. 
 But as the golden sun transcends the beauty of the brightest 
 
 star. 
 Than all the charms of face and form her maiden heart was 
 
 lovelier far. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We can see her now in fancy, through the dim years gazing 
 
 back 
 To those stirring days of old, the days of valiant Frontenac, 
 When the thinly settled land was sadly wasted far and near, 
 And before the savage foe the people fled like stricken deer. 
 
 IV 
 
 'Tis the season when the forest wears its many-coloured 
 
 dress, 
 And a strange foreboding whisper answers back the wind's 
 
 caress, 
 As the swaying pines repeat the murmurs of the distant 
 
 waves, 
 While the children of the Summer flutter softly to their 
 
 graves. 
 
 V 
 
 But was that another whisper warning her of ill to come, 
 As she stands beside the river, near her father's fortress 
 home?
 
 28 Madeleine de Vercheres 
 
 Hark! the sound of stealthy footsteps creeps upon the 
 
 throbbing ear — 
 Maiden, fly ! the foe approaches, and no human aid is near. 
 
 VI 
 
 Surely He who decked with beauty this fair earth on which 
 
 we dwell, 
 Never meant that men should change it by their madness 
 
 into hell! 
 He who gave the trees their glory, gave the birds their gift of 
 
 song, 
 Cannot smile from out yon heavens at the siglit of human 
 
 wrong. 
 
 VII 
 
 But those savage hearts no beauty wins to thoughts of tender 
 
 ruth — 
 Mother fond, or gentle maid, or innocence of youth. 
 See with fierce exulting yells the flying maiden they pursue — 
 Hear her prayer, God, and save her from that wild 
 
 vindictive crew. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Never ere that day or since was such a race by maiden run, 
 Never 'gainst such fearful odds was wished-for-goal so 
 
 swiftly won ; 
 Fifty foes are on her track, the bullets graze her floating 
 
 hair — 
 But worse than vain is all their rage, for God has heard her 
 
 prayer. 
 
 IX 
 
 Madeleine has reached the fort, the gates are closed against 
 
 the foe. 
 But now a stricken throng sends up to heaven a wail of woe — 
 Feeble men, and fainting women, without heart or hope or 
 
 plan — 
 Then it was that God gave courage to a maid to act the man, 
 
 X 
 
 Then it was that Madeleine bethought her of her father's 
 
 name; 
 " Never shall a soldier's daughter die the coward's death of 
 
 shame.
 
 Madeleine de Vercheres 29 
 
 Never, in the days to come, when Canada is great and proud, 
 Be it said a Christian maiden by a heathen's threat was cowed. 
 
 XI 
 
 " He is but a craven wretch would bid me yield in such an 
 
 hour — 
 Never yet my country's sons in peril's face were known to 
 
 cower ! 
 No, my people! God is with us; 'tis our homes that we 
 
 defend — 
 Let the savage do his worst, we will oppose him to the end. 
 
 XII 
 
 " Women, I am but a girl, but hero's blood is in my veins, 
 And I will shed it drop by drop before I see my land in chains; 
 Let them tear me limb from limb, or strew my ashes to the 
 
 wind. 
 Ere I disgrace the name I bear, or leave a coward's fame 
 
 behind. 
 
 XIII 
 
 " Brothers mine, though young in years you are old enough 
 
 to know 
 That to shed your blood is noble, fighting with your country's 
 
 foe! 
 Be the lesson unforgotten that our noble father gave, 
 Whether glory be its guerdon, or it wins us but a grave. 
 
 XIV 
 
 " Come, my people, take your places, every one as duty calls; 
 Death to every foe who ventures to approach these fortress 
 
 walls ! 
 Let no point be unprotected, leave the rest to God on high. 
 Then we shall have done our duty, even if we have to die." 
 
 XV 
 
 Thus she braced their drooping courage, matchless maiden, 
 
 Madeleine ; 
 And the cry, " to arms ! " re-echoed, till the roof-trees rang 
 
 again ; 
 Cannons thundered, muskets rattled, and the clank of steel 
 
 was heard, 
 Till the baffled foe retreated, like a wolf untimely scared.
 
 30 Dargai Ridge 
 
 XVI 
 
 Seven days and seven nights, with sleepless eye and bated 
 
 breath, 
 They held the fort against the foe that lurked around them 
 
 plotting death ! 
 At last a joyous challenge came, it was the brave La Momerie, 
 And up to heaven rose a shout, " The foe has fled and we are 
 
 free!" 
 
 J. Reade. 
 
 KHARTOUM 
 
 Set in the fierce red desert for a sword. 
 Drawn and deep driven implacably ! The tide 
 Of scorching sand that chafes thy landward side 
 Storming thy palms ; and past thy front out- poured 
 The Nile's vast dread and wonder! Late there roared 
 (While far off paused the long war, long defied) 
 Mad tumult thro' thy streets; and Gordon died. 
 Slaughtered amid the yelling rebel horde ! 
 Yet spite of shame and wrathful tears, Khartoum, 
 We owe thee certain thanks, for thou hast shown 
 How still the one a thousand crowds outweighs — 
 Still one man's mood sways millions — one man's doom 
 Smites nations — and our burning spirits own 
 Not sordid these nor unheroic days ! 
 
 C. G. D. Roberts. 
 
 DARGAI RIDGE 
 
 Thank God, I have in my laggard blood 
 
 The vim of the Englishman, 
 Which is second to none, from North to South, 
 
 Save the fire of the Scottish clan — 
 Save the blood of the lads who died 
 
 On the rocky mountain-side. 
 And went to the hell of the heated guns 
 
 As a lover goes to his bride.
 
 Dargai Ridge 3 i 
 
 The Ghoorkas laughed at the whining balls — 
 
 And they were of alien race, 
 The English drave at the smoking rocks 
 
 And their subalterns set the pace. 
 Oh, the blood of the lads who fell 
 
 When the valley lay a hell ; 
 Thank God, that the men in the East and West 
 
 Cheer at the tale they tell. 
 
 The Ghoorkas lay in the slaughter place. 
 
 Save a few that had battled through — 
 Their brown brave faces raised to the steep 
 
 Where the flags of the marksmen flew — 
 Their great souls cheering still 
 
 (Souls that no ball could kill) 
 Unto the ears of the few, who crouched 
 
 Under the crooked hill. 
 
 The English went as maids to a dance 
 
 Or hounds to the huntsman's call, 
 And the English lay in the valley-lap 
 
 And smeared their blood on the wall. 
 Oh, the blood that knows no shame 
 
 And the valour clear of blame, 
 Thank God that the world is girt about 
 
 With the gold of an English name. 
 
 Then the men of the Gordon Highlanders 
 
 With their bagpipes shrilling free — 
 The lads of the heather pasture-side. 
 
 The lads of the unclad knee. 
 Charged — where their friends lay dead — 
 
 Over the green and red 
 To the cry of the regimental pipes 
 
 And the flip of the killing lead. 
 
 They passed the level of sprawling shapes 
 
 And the valley of reeking death. 
 They struck the rocks of the mountain pass 
 
 Where the smoke blew up like breath. 
 Little they thought of fame 
 
 Or the lifting of a name;
 
 3-2 The Canadians on the Nile 
 
 They only thought of the mountain crest 
 And the circle of spitting fiame. 
 
 Thank God, I find in my laggard blood, 
 
 Deep down, the fire of a man, 
 And the heart that shakes with a mad delight 
 
 At the name of a Highland clan, 
 At the name of the lads who died 
 
 On the rocky mountain-side 
 And went to the hell of the heated guns 
 
 As a lover goes to his bride. 
 
 Theodore Roberts. 
 
 THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE 
 
 0, THE East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter; 
 And the pine becomes a palm by the dark Egyptian water; 
 And the Nile's like many a stream we know that fills its 
 
 brimming cup; 
 We'll think it is the Ottawa as we haul the bateaux up ! 
 Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the bateaux up ! 
 It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top. 
 
 0, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river; 
 But the thirsty dale is here where the sultry sunbeams quiver; 
 And the mocking mirage spreads its view afar on either hand; 
 But strong we bend the sturdy oar towards the southern land ! 
 Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the bateaux up! 
 Its easy shooting homeward when we're at the top. 
 
 0, we've tracked the Rapids up, and o'er many a portage 
 
 crossing; 
 And its often such we've seen, though so loud the waves are 
 
 tossing ! 
 Then its homeward when the run is o'er! o'er stream and 
 
 ocean deep — 
 To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows 
 
 sleep ! 
 Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the bateaux up! 
 Its easy shooting homeward when we're at the top !
 
 The Woman's Part 33 
 
 And it yet may come to pass that the hearts and hands so 
 
 ready 
 May be sought again to help when some poise is off the steady ! 
 And the maple and the pine be matched with British oak 
 
 the while, 
 As once beneath Egyptian suns the Canadians on the Nile! 
 Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the bateaux up ! 
 It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top. 
 
 W. Wye Smith, 
 
 THE WOMAN'S PART 
 
 Gone ! brother, lover, son ! 
 Gone forth to certain peril, toil, and pain. 
 And chance of death — for country counted gain. 
 Our part to let them go; " Not one 
 
 Would we hold back," to give 
 Our heart's best treasures to our mother-land 
 Though the gift break them ; firm of lip and hand 
 To bid farewell; to say, " Be strong and live 
 Victors or die deserving," Who shall deem 
 Our part the easier? or the place we hold 
 Patience for courage — for the deed the dream — 
 Waiting for action — service slight or cold .'* 
 
 What shall we give them ? Words ? 
 To them, obedient to the bonds of faith. 
 To them, enduring danger, facing death. 
 Words were as stones for bread. Were our speech swords, 
 
 And were our frail hopes shields. 
 Then might we give them ; but how frame our thought 
 Nor mar the harvest gift their truth has brought 
 With the poor fruit a woman's nature yields 
 When love sows seeds ? Hush! let us keep our souls 
 In silence — Words of comfort, words of cheer. 
 But mock the senses when the war-cloud rolls 
 Black 'twixt the eyes and all the heart holds dear. 
 
 What can we give them ? Prayers ? 
 Shall not the God of battles work His will?
 
 34 Missipowistic 
 
 He guards, He smiles, Our strength is to be still 
 And wait His word; to cast aside our cares 
 
 And trust His justice; strife 
 And peace are in His hand. They who shall see 
 Victorious days, and in the time to be 
 Shall share again the toils and joys of life 
 Are His — but not less His are they who fall 
 (Sealing their soul's devotion with their breath), 
 And not less loved that, true to duty's call, 
 Their crown of honour comes to them in death. 
 
 What shall we give them ? Tears ? 
 Tears least of all ! Shame not their valour so — 
 Honour and manhood call them; let them go. 
 Nor make farewell twice parting by your tears, 
 
 woman-heart, be strong ! 
 Too full for words — too humble for a prayer — 
 Too faithful to be fearful — offer here 
 Your sacrifice of patience. Not for long 
 The darkness. When the dawn of peace breaks bright 
 Blessed she who welcomes whom her God shall save, 
 But honoured in her God's and country's sight 
 She who Ufts empty arms to cry, " I gave! " 
 
 Annie Rothavell Christie. 
 
 MISSIPOWISTIC 1 
 
 (Written at the Grand Rapids of the Saskatchewan) 
 
 Here in this howling torrent ends 
 The rushing river named 
 By savage man 
 Saskatchewan — 
 In dark tradition famed. 
 
 His source, Creation's dread abyss. 
 Or in the glacier's cell; 
 
 His way the sweep 
 
 Of canyons deep, 
 And clefts and chasms fell. 
 
 > The Grand Rapids by which it discharges into Lake Winnipeg are 
 called Missipowistic.
 
 Missipowistic 35 
 
 And forth from many a mountain side 
 He leaps with laughter grim ; 
 
 Their spurs are slit, 
 
 Their walls are split, 
 To make a path for him. 
 
 And down into the plains he raves 
 With dusky torrent cold, 
 
 And lines his bed 
 
 With treasure shred 
 From unknown reefs of gold. 
 
 And monster-like, devours his shores. 
 Or writhing through the plain. 
 Casts up the while 
 Full many an isle, 
 And swallows them again. 
 
 For though, betimes he seems to sink 
 Amidst the prairies pale, 
 
 He swells with pride 
 
 In summer-tide. 
 When low-bom rivers fail. 
 
 And knits traditions to his shores 
 Of savage fights and fame, 
 
 When poaching Cree 
 
 The Blackfoot free 
 With magic arms o'ercame.^ 
 
 Of Wapiti and Spanish horse,^ 
 And of the bison horde, 
 
 A transverse stream. 
 
 As in a dream, 
 Which flowed at every ford. 
 
 And of the whites who first espied 
 His course, their toils and cares; 
 
 1 An allusion to the dispossession of the Blackfoot Indians by the 
 Crees who obtained magic arms, i.e. fire-arms, from the EngUsh at 
 Hudson Bay. 
 
 ^ The Spanish horse was the progenitor of the Indian ponies.
 
 36 Missipowistic 
 
 Of brave Varennes/ 
 The boast of men, 
 And prince of Voyageurs. 
 
 Of him who once his waters churned — 
 The bluff fur-trader king — 
 
 Mackenzie bold, 
 
 Renowned of old 
 For his far wandering. 
 
 Of later days, when to his shores 
 The dauntless Franklin came: 
 Ere science lost, 
 In Arctic frost. 
 The life, the lofty aim. 
 
 Or of the old Bois-Brule town, 
 Whose huts of log and earth 
 Rang winter-long 
 With jest and song, 
 And wild plain-hunter's mirth. 
 
 And of the nearer, darker days. 
 Which saw their offspring leap 
 
 To arms, and wake 
 
 With frenzied shake. 
 Dull Justice from her sleep. 
 
 Or, turning to the future, dreams 
 On Time, and prophesies 
 
 The human tide 
 
 When, by his side, 
 Great cities shall arise. 
 
 The sordid tide, the weltering sea, 
 Of lusts and cares and strife ; 
 The dreaded things 
 The worldling brings — 
 The rush and roar of life. 
 
 1 A son of Varennes Sieur de la Verandrye (known as " The 
 Chevalier ") — a most adventurous spirit — credited with the discovery 
 of the Saskatchewan.
 
 Missipowistic 37 
 
 And onwards tears his torrent still, 
 A hundred leagues withdrawn, 
 
 Beyond the capes 
 
 And sylvan shapes 
 And wilds of Chimahawn. 
 
 Down through the silent forest land. 
 Beyond the endless marge 
 
 Of swale and brake, 
 
 And lingering lake 
 Beyond the Demi-charge. 
 
 Till at the Landing-place he lifts 
 His crest of foam, and quick 
 
 As lightning leaps 
 
 Adown the steeps 
 Of Missipowistic! 
 
 Whilst o'er him wheels the osprey's wing — 
 And in the tamarac glades 
 
 Near by, the bear 
 
 And mooswa share 
 Their matchless mossy shades. 
 
 Whilst echoes of the huskie's yells ^ 
 From yonder woods are flung 
 
 At midnight dim, 
 
 A chorus grim, 
 As if by demons sung ! 
 
 But see ! here comes a birch canoe ! 
 Two wiry forms it bears. 
 In quaintest guise. 
 With wrinkled eyes — 
 Two smoke-dried voyageurs. 
 
 " We'll take you down ! Embarquez done — 
 Embarquez done. Monsieur! 
 We'll steer you through 
 The channel true," 
 Cries each old voyageur. 
 
 1 A corruption of the word Esquimaux used of the trained dogs 
 siunmered in large niunbers at the fishing posts in the interior.
 
 38 Missipowistic 
 
 " Nay look ye, men — those walls of foam, 
 Yon swirling ' cellars ' fell! " 
 " Fear not to pass, 
 Thou Moniyas ! ^ 
 We know the torrent well." 
 
 "I've roamed this river from my youth — 
 I know its every fork." 
 " And I have made/' 
 The other said, 
 " Full many a trip to York! " ^ 
 
 So ho ! I'll go ! the Rapids call ! 
 With hamper at my wing 
 
 We sally down 
 
 The foaming crown 
 Like arrow from the string — 
 
 Into the yeast of waters wild, 
 Where winds and eddies rave ! 
 Into the fume 
 And raging spume 
 And tempest of the wave ! 
 
 Past rocky points, with bays between. 
 Where pelicans, bright-hued, 
 Are flushed to flight 
 With birds like night — 
 The cormorant's impish brood. 
 
 And madly now our frail craft leaps 
 Adown the billows' strife. 
 
 And cleaves their crests 
 
 And seething breasts 
 As 'twere a thing of life. 
 
 As dips the pandion ^ for his prey 
 So dips our bark amain, 
 
 * The Cree word for Canadian: it means as well, new comer, green- 
 horn: still used among the whites in Saskatchewan. 
 
 " i.e. York factory on Hudson Bay. 
 
 * The American osprey.
 
 Missipowistic 39 
 
 We sink and soar, 
 And sink and soar, 
 And sink and soar again. 
 
 Till, following the foaming fall 
 Of one long throbbing wave, 
 
 Enrapt we glide. 
 
 And seem to slide 
 Down, down into its grave ! 
 
 (( 
 
 break ! break ! sweet balm, soft air ! " 
 " No, no, we mount ! we rise ! " 
 
 Once more the dash 
 
 And deafening clash 
 Of billows flout the skies. 
 
 Till swept o'er many a whirling swell, 
 The final surge is past, 
 
 And hke the strife 
 
 Of human life, 
 We reach calm floods at last. 
 
 Now thanks, ye grim old voyageurs ! 
 No man has flinched in fear — 
 
 Yet in earth's round 
 
 I've seldom found 
 This life and death so near. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to you, good men and true ! 
 Here we shall rest awhile, 
 And toast the bold 
 Coureurs of old 
 Upon the Prisoner's isle.^ 
 
 Charles Mair. 
 
 1 An isle at the first of the rapids — sometimes in former days used for 
 the keeping of prisoners.
 
 40 The Thousand Isles 
 
 THE THOUSAND ISLES 
 
 Here the Spirit of beauty keepeth 
 
 Jubilee for evermore, 
 Here the voice of gladness leapeth, 
 
 Echoing from shore to shore. 
 O'er the hidden watery valley, 
 
 O'er each buried wood and glade, 
 Dances our delighted galley, 
 
 Through the sunlight and the shade — 
 Dances o'er the granite cells, 
 Where the soul of beauty dwells. • 
 
 Here the flowers are ever springing. 
 
 While the summer breezes blow; 
 Here the hours are ever clinging, 
 
 Loitering before they go; 
 Playing around each beauteous islet, 
 
 Loath to leave the sunny shore. 
 Where, upon her couch of violet. 
 
 Beauty sits for evermore — 
 Sits, and smiles by day and night, 
 Hand in hand with pure delight. 
 
 Here the Spirit of beauty dwelleth 
 
 In each palpitating tree, 
 In each amber wave that welleth 
 
 From its home beneath the sea; 
 In the moss upon the granite. 
 
 In each calm secluded bay, 
 With the zephyr winds that fan it 
 
 With their sweet breaths all the day — 
 On the waters, on the shore. 
 Beauty dwelleth evenuore ! 
 
 Charles Sangster.
 
 Night Among the Thousand Isles 41 
 
 NIGHT AMONG THE THOUSAND ISLES 
 
 Mysterious falls the moon's transforming light 
 
 On lichen covered rock and granite wall, 
 Comes piercing through the hollows of the night 
 The loon's weird, plaintive call. 
 
 Like some great regiment upon the shore 
 
 The stalwart pines go trooping up the hill, 
 And faintly in the distance o'er and o'er 
 Echoes the whip-poor-will. 
 
 Like silhouettes the dreaming islands keep 
 
 Their silent watches, mirrored in the tide, 
 While in their labyrinthine aisles some deep. 
 Still mystery seems to hide. 
 
 From out the shadows dim against the sky 
 
 Come stealing shadow-ships not made of men, 
 Faint phantom barques that slowly drifting by 
 Are swallowed up again. 
 
 While silently beneath, the river flows, 
 
 Unfathomed, dark, a great resistless tide, 
 Within its bosom deep the virgin snows 
 From many a mountain side. 
 
 And, drifting with the current, how we feel 
 The haunting witchery of Beauty's spell ! 
 The world we left behind seems all unreal. 
 Where such enchantments dwell. 
 
 The vexing cares that overfill our days 
 
 Slip stealthily away, and we are wooed 
 Back to the healing, half-forgotten ways 
 Of peace and solitude. 
 
 Helena ColemaNs
 
 42 Lake Huron 
 
 VAPOUR AND BLUE 
 
 Domed with the azure of heaven, 
 Floored with a pavement of pearl, 
 
 Clothed all about with a brightness 
 Soft as the eyes of a girl, 
 
 Girt with a magic girdle. 
 Rimmed with a vapour of rest — 
 
 These are the inland waters. 
 These are the lakes of the west. 
 
 Voices of slumberous music, 
 
 Spirits of mist and flame, 
 Moonlit memories, left here 
 
 By gods who long ago came. 
 
 And vanishing left but an echo 
 
 In silence of moon-dim caves. 
 Where haze-wrapt the August night slumbers 
 
 Or the wild heart of October raves. 
 
 Here where the jewels of Nature 
 Are set in the light of God's smile. 
 
 Far from the world's wild throbbing, 
 I will stay me and rest awhile. 
 
 And store in my heart old music. 
 
 Melodies gathered and sung 
 By the genies of love and beauty 
 
 When the heart of the world was young. 
 
 LAKE HURON 
 {October) 
 
 Miles and miles of lake and forest, 
 Miles and miles of sky and mist, 
 
 Marsh and shoreland, where the rushes 
 Rustle, wind and water kissed; 
 
 Where the lake's great face is driving, 
 Driving, drifting into mist.
 
 The Secret of the Sanguenay 43 
 
 Miles and miles of crimson glories, 
 
 Autumn's wondrous fires ablaze; 
 Miles of shoreland, red and golden, 
 
 Drifting into dream and haze; 
 Dreaming where the woods and vapours 
 
 Melt in myriad misty ways. 
 
 Miles and miles of lake and forest, 
 
 Miles and miles of sky and mist; 
 Wild birds calling, where the rushes 
 
 Rustle, wind and water kissed ; 
 Where the lake's great face is driving. 
 
 Driving, drifting into mist. 
 
 W. Wilfred Campbell. 
 
 LAKE SCENE IN WESTERN CANADA 
 
 {Drowned land by the Lake Shore — An autumnal twilight scene) 
 
 The dead trees stand around— gaunt, bleach'd, and bare — 
 
 Like skeletons of strange weird things that were — 
 
 The black ooze trailing at their tangled roots : 
 
 Far off a solitary owlet hoots. 
 
 And, all beyond, the great grey waters lie 
 
 Pale in the gleam of stars. The night's faint sigh 
 
 Floats o'er the pine-plumed islets, looking now 
 
 Like phantom ships that come with silent prow 
 
 And shadowy sails from some forgotten shore 
 
 Lost in the haze of years that come no more, 
 
 Save in the semblance of a memory 
 
 Re-bom in summer dreams — 
 
 E. J. Chapman. 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE SANGUENAY 
 
 Like a fragment of torn sea-kale, 
 Or a wraith of mist in a gale. 
 There comes a mysterious tale 
 
 Out of the stormy past; 
 How a fleet with a living freight, 
 Once sailed through the rocky gate
 
 44 The Secret of the Sanguenay 
 
 Of the river so desolate, 
 Tliis chasm so black and vast. 
 
 'Twas Cartier, the sailor bold, 
 Whose credulous lips had told 
 How glittering gems and gold 
 
 Were found in that lonely land; 
 How out of the priceless hoard 
 Within their rough bosoms stored, 
 These towering mountains poured 
 
 Their treasures upon the strand. 
 
 Allured by the greed of gain 
 Sieur Roberval turned again. 
 And, sailing across the main. 
 
 Passed up the St. Lawrence tide; 
 He sailed by the frowning shape 
 Of Jacques Cartier's Devil's Cape, 
 Till the Sanguenay stood agape 
 
 With hills upon either side. 
 
 Around him the sunbeams fell 
 On the gentle St. Lawrence swell. 
 As though by some mystic spell 
 
 The water was turned to gold; 
 But as he pursued, they fled. 
 Till his vessels at last were led 
 Where, cold and sullen and dead, 
 
 The Sanguenay river rolled. 
 
 Chill blew the wind in his face, 
 As, still on his treasure chase. 
 He entered that gloomy place 
 
 Whose mountains in stony pride. 
 Still, soulless, merciless, sheer. 
 Their adamant sides uprear. 
 Naked and brown and drear, 
 
 High over the murky tide. 
 
 No longer the sun shone bright 
 On the sails that, full and white, 
 Like sea-gulls winging their flight 
 Dipped in the silent wave;
 
 Niagara 45 
 
 But shadows fell thick around, 
 Till feeling and sight and sound 
 In their awful gloom were drowned. 
 And sank in a depthless grave. 
 
 Far over the topmost height 
 Great eagles had wheeled in flight, 
 But, wrapped in the gloom of night, 
 
 They ceased to circle and soar; 
 Grim silence reigned over all, 
 Save that from a rocky wall 
 A murmuring waterfall 
 
 Leapt down to the river shore. 
 
 ! merciless wall of stone. 
 
 What happened that night is known 
 
 By you, and by you alone; 
 
 Though the eagles unceasing scream ; 
 How once through that midnight air, 
 For an instant a trumpet's blare. 
 And the voices of men in prayer. 
 
 Arose from the murky stream. 
 
 Arthur Weir. 
 
 NIAGARA 
 
 A THOUSAND streams all gather into one 
 
 And in thy thunders sink; 
 Four mighty seas to thy dread margin run. 
 
 And dare thy awful brink. 
 
 The shock of cavalry in battle-sweep. 
 
 The might of war's impact, 
 Are whispers to the thunder o'er the steep 
 
 Of thy great cataract. 
 
 While yet there was no ear to hear thy moan 
 
 And all the earth was young. 
 Out on the lonely air thy monotone 
 
 Its deep vibrations flung.
 
 46 The Temple of the Ages 
 
 The sun was painting rainbows on the mist 
 
 That veiled thy watery crown, 
 When fierce Cambyses staggered all the East 
 
 And trampled Egypt down. 
 
 Still boomed thy flood in ceaseless cannonade, 
 
 And seethed in yeasty foam, 
 When Goth and Vandal in destruction laid 
 
 The towers of ancient Rome. 
 
 Thy torrent breaks the adamantine rock 
 
 And hurls it from the height; 
 The firm-knit earth cannot withstand the shock 
 
 Of thy propulsive might. 
 
 How wild the storm that ever downward sweeps 
 
 The whirlwind of thy foam, 
 How still the sky that all thy water weeps 
 
 The raindrops from its dome. 
 
 Sublime and silent is that mighty force 
 
 That dwells within these forms 
 Whose wings of mist soar upward in their course 
 
 And veil thy breast in storms. 
 
 Howe'er resistlessly thy fury sweeps, 
 
 How vast soe'er thy powers, 
 In gravitation all thy glory sleeps. 
 
 Thy substance in the showers. 
 
 Dr. Albert D. Watson. 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF THE AGES 
 
 These mountains sleep, white winter's mantle round them. 
 The thunder's voice no longer breaks their rest; 
 
 From bluest heights the sun beholds with rapture 
 The noble pose of each gigantic crest. 
 
 The Generations of the clouds have vanished 
 Which lingered idly here through autumn days ; 
 
 The leaves have gone, the voices of the tempest 
 No longer roll to heaven their hymn of praise.
 
 The Pioneers 47 
 
 Deep hid in snow the streams with muffled murmurs 
 Pour down dark caverns to the infinite sea; 
 
 The awful peace has vexed their restless childhood; 
 They hurry from its solemnity. 
 
 Even the climbing woods are mute and spellbound. 
 And, halting midway on the steep ascent, 
 
 The patient spruces hold their breath for wonder, 
 Nor shake the snow with which their boughs are bent. 
 
 Now as the sun goes down with all his shining. 
 Huge shadows creep among these mighty walls. 
 
 And on the haunting ghosts of by-gone ages 
 The dreamy splendour of the starlight falls. 
 
 Not Nineveh, nor Babylon, nor Egypt, 
 
 In all their treasures 'neath the hungry sand 
 
 Can show a sight so awful or majestic 
 As this waste temple in this newer land. 
 
 The king that reared these mighty courts was Chaos, 
 
 His servants, fire and elemental war; 
 The Titan hands of Earthquake and of Ocean 
 
 These granite slabs and pillars laid in store. 
 
 And, lauding here the vast and loving Father, 
 The ages one by one have knelt and prayed. 
 
 Until the ghostly echoes of their worship 
 Come back and make man's puny heart afraid. 
 
 F. G. Scott. 
 
 THE PIONEERS 
 
 All you who in your acres broad 
 
 Know Nature in its charms. 
 With pictured dale and fruitful sod, 
 
 And herds on verdant farms. 
 Remember those who fought the trees 
 
 And early hardships braved, 
 And so for us of all degrees 
 
 All from the forest saved.
 
 48 The Pioneers 
 
 And you who stroll in leisured ease 
 
 Along your city squares, 
 Thank those who there have fought the trees 
 
 And howling wolves and bears. 
 They met the proud woods in the face, 
 
 Those gloomy shades and stem; 
 Withstood and conquered, and your race 
 
 Supplants the pine and fern. 
 
 Where'er we look their work is there, 
 
 Now land and man are free: 
 On every side the view grows fair. 
 
 And perfect yet shall be. 
 The credit their's, who all day fought 
 
 The stubborn giant hosts; 
 We have but built on what they wrought, 
 
 Their's were the honour-posts. 
 
 Though plain their lives and rude their dress. 
 
 No common men were they; 
 Some came for scorn of slavishness 
 
 That ruled lands far away; 
 And some came here for conscience's sake. 
 
 For Empire and for King; 
 And some for Love a home to make. 
 
 Their dear ones here to bring. 
 
 First staunch men left, for Britain's name, 
 
 The South's prosperity; 
 And Highland clans from Scotland came — 
 
 Their sires had aye been free; 
 And England oft her legions gave 
 
 To found a race of pluck; 
 And ever came the poor and brave 
 
 And took the axe and struck. 
 
 Each hewed, and saw a dream-like home ! 
 
 Hewed on — a settlement ! 
 Struck hard — through mists the spire and dome 
 
 The distance rim indent ! 
 So honoured be they midst your ease. 
 
 And give them well their due; 
 Honour to those who fought the trees. 
 
 And made a land for you ! 
 
 William Douw Lighthall.
 
 Companions in Solitude 49 
 
 COMPANIONS IN SOLITUDE, or REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 THE BUSH 
 
 This generation ne'er can know 
 The toils we had to undergo, 
 While laying the great forests low. 
 
 For many a weary year I wrought, 
 With poverty and hardship fought. 
 And hardly had I time for thought. 
 
 In every stroke, in every blow. 
 In every towering pine laid low, 
 I felt a triumph o'er a foe. 
 
 Each knotty hemlock old and brown, 
 Each elm in thunder hurling down, 
 A jewel added to my crown. ^ ^.^ 
 
 If e'er my heart within me died. 
 
 Then up would start my stubborn pride, 
 
 And dash the coward thoughts aside ! 
 
 And hope kept ringing in my ear, 
 
 "Be brave; for what hast thou to fear — 
 
 The heavens are watching o'er thee here! " 
 
 But still some wandering sympathy, 
 Some song learned on my mother's knee — 
 Came with the bread of life to me. 
 
 Save for those rain drops from on high — 
 Those fountains opened in the sky — 
 My life streams would have all gone dry. 
 
 Until that time I little knew 
 
 What books for lonely hearts can do, 
 
 Till spirits round my hearth they drew. 
 
 D
 
 50 Companions in Solitude 
 
 My cabin seemed a whole world wide 1 
 Kings entered in without their pride, 
 And warriors laid their swords aside ! 
 
 There came the Saxon, there the Celt, 
 And all had knelt where I had knelt, 
 For all had felt what I had felt. 
 
 I saw — from clime and creed apart — 
 Still heaving 'neath their robes of art — 
 The universal human heart. 
 
 And Homer and Sir Walter Scott — 
 They entered in my humble cot 
 And cheered with tales my lonely lot. 
 
 And Bums came singing songs divine, 
 His heart and soul in every line; 
 A glorious company was mine. 
 
 I was a brother to the great ! 
 Shakespeare himself on me did wait, 
 With leaves torn from the book of fate^ 
 
 They asked me not of rank or creed. 
 And yet suppHed my spirit's need; 
 0, they were comforters indeed I 
 
 And showed me by their magic art, 
 Those awful things at which we start — 
 That hover round the human heart. 
 
 Fate, ever watching with her shears ! 
 And mixing all our hope with fears, 
 And drenching all our joys in tears. 
 
 They showed how contradictions throng; 
 How by our weakness we are strong; 
 And how we're righted by the wrong: 
 
 Unveiled new regions to my sight. 
 And made the weary winter's night, 
 A perfect revel of delight.
 
 Acres of Your Own 5 1 
 
 ACRES OF YOUR OWN 
 
 Here's the road to independence, 
 Who would bow and dance attendance ! 
 Who with e'er a spark of pride, 
 While the bush is wild and wide, 
 Would be but a hanger-on. 
 Begging favours from a throne; 
 While beneath yon smiling sun, 
 Farms by labour can be won. 
 Up ! be stirring, be alive, 
 Get upon a farm and thrive ! 
 He's a king upon a throne, 
 Who has acres of his own ! 
 
 Tho' the cabin's walls are bare. 
 What of that, if love is there? 
 What, although your back is bent. 
 There are none to hound for rent; 
 What, tho' you must chop and plough. 
 None dare ask, " What doest thou? " 
 What, tho' homespun be your coat. 
 Kings might envy you your lot. 
 Up ! be stirring, be alive. 
 Get upon a farm and thrive ! 
 He's a king upon a throne. 
 Who has acres of his own ! 
 
 Honest labour thou would'st shirk — 
 
 Thou art far too good for work; 
 
 Such gentility's a fudge. 
 
 True men all must toil and drudge. 
 
 Nature's true nobility 
 
 Scorns such mock gentility; 
 
 Fools but talk of blood and birth — 
 
 Every man must prove his worth. 
 
 Up ! be stirring, be alive. 
 
 Get upon a farm and thrive ! 
 
 He's a king upon a throne 
 
 Who has acres of his own ! 
 
 Alexander McLachlan.
 
 52 Song of the Axe 
 
 SONG OF THE AXE 
 
 High grew the snow beneath the low hung sky, 
 And all was silent in the wilderness; 
 In trance of stillness Nature heard her God 
 Rebuilding her spent fires, and veil'd her face 
 While the Great Worker brooded o'er His work. 
 
 " Bite deep and wide, Axe, the tree, 
 What doth thy bold voice promise me? " 
 
 " I promise thee all joyous things, 
 That furnish forth the lives of Kings! " 
 
 " For every silver ringing blow, 
 Cities and palaces shall grow! " 
 
 " Bite deep and wide, Axe, the tree, 
 Tell wider prophecies to me." 
 
 " When rust hath gnaw'd me deep and red, 
 A nation strong shall lift her head ! " 
 
 " His crown the very Heavens shall smite, 
 Mons shall build him in his might! " 
 
 " Bite wide and deep, Axe, the tree; 
 Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy! " 
 
 Max smote the snow-weight'd tree, and lightly laughed. 
 " See friend," he cried to one that look'd and smil'd, 
 " My axe and I — we do immortal tasks — 
 We build up nations, this my axe and I ! " 
 
 Isabella Valancy Crawford.
 
 Canadian Camping Song 53 
 
 CANADIAN CAMPING SONG 
 
 A WHITE tent pitched by a glassy lake, 
 
 Well under a shady tree, 
 Or by ripphng rills from the grand old hills, 
 
 Is the summer home for me. 
 I fear no blaze of the noontide rays, 
 
 For the woodland glades are mine. 
 The fragrant air, and that perfume rare 
 
 The odour of forest pine. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 The wild woods, the wild woods, 
 
 The wild woods give me; 
 The wild woods of Canada, 
 
 The boundless and free ! 
 
 A cooling plunge at the break of day, 
 
 A paddle, a row, or sail, 
 With always a fish for a mid-day dish. 
 
 And plenty of Adam's ale. 
 With rod or gun, or in hammock swung. 
 
 We glide through the pleasant days ; 
 When darkness falls on our canvas walls. 
 
 We kindle the camp fire's blaze. 
 
 From out the gloom sails the silv'ry moon, 
 
 O'er forests dark and still. 
 Now far, now near, ever sad and clear, 
 
 Comes the plaint of the whip-poor-will; 
 With song and laugh, and with kindly chaff, 
 
 We startle the birds above, 
 Then rest tired heads on our cedar beds. 
 
 To dream of the ones we love. 
 
 J. D. Edgar.
 
 54 Voyageur's Song 
 
 VOYAGEUR'S SONG 
 
 Our mother is the good, green earth, 
 
 Our seat her bosom broad ; 
 And sure in plenty and in dearth 
 
 Of our six feet of sod, 
 We welcome fate with careless mirth 
 
 And dangerous paths have trod, 
 Holding our lives of little worth. 
 
 And fearing none but God. 
 
 When ankle deep, bright streamlets slide 
 
 Above the fretted sand, 
 Our frail canoes, hke shadows, glide 
 
 Swift through the silent land; 
 Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide 
 
 Rocks rise on every hand. 
 Our path will we confess denied. 
 
 Nor cowardly seek the strand. 
 
 The foam may leap like frightened cloud 
 
 That hears the tempest scream. 
 The waves may fold their whitened shroud 
 
 Where ghastly ledges gleam ; 
 With muscles strained and backs well bowed 
 
 And poles that breaking seem. 
 We shoot the sault, whose torrents proud 
 
 Itself our lord did deem. 
 
 The broad traverse is cold and deep. 
 
 And treacherous smiles it hath. 
 And with its sickle of death doth reap. 
 
 With woe for aftermath: 
 But though the wind-vexed waves may leap. 
 
 Like cougars, in our path. 
 Still forward on our way we keep. 
 
 Nor heed their futile wrath. 
 
 Where glitter trackless wastes of snow 
 Beneath the Northern light.
 
 At the Cedars 55 
 
 On netted shoes we noiseless go, 
 
 Nor heed though keen winds bite. 
 The shaggy bears our prowess know, 
 
 The white fox fears our might, 
 And wolves, when warm our camp fires glow, 
 
 With angry snarls take flight. 
 
 Where forest fastnesses extend, 
 
 Ne'er trod by man before, 
 Where cries of loon and wild duck blend 
 
 With some dark torrent's roar, 
 And timid deer, unawed, descend 
 
 Along the lake's still shore, 
 We blaze the trees and onward wend 
 
 To ravish nature's store. 
 
 Leve, Leve, and Couche, at mom and eve 
 
 These calls the echoes wake. 
 We rise and forward fare, nor grieve 
 
 Though long portage we make, 
 Until the sky the sun gleams leave 
 
 And shadows cowl the lake; 
 And then we rest and fancies weave 
 
 For wife or sweetheart's sake. 
 
 Arthur Weir. 
 
 AT THE CEDARS 
 
 You had two girls, Baptiste, 
 
 One is Virginie — 
 Hold hard, Baptiste, 
 
 Listen to me. 
 
 The whole drive was jammed, 
 In that bend at the Cedars; 
 The rapids were dammed 
 And crammed ; you might know 
 The devil had clinched them below. 
 
 We worked three days — not a budge ! 
 " She's tight as a wedge, 
 On the ledge," 
 Says our foreman,
 
 56 At the Cedars 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! boys, look here, 
 We must get this thing clear." 
 He cursed at the men, 
 And we went for it then, 
 With our cant-dog's crow; 
 We just gave " he yo ho," 
 When she gave a big shove 
 From above. 
 
 The gang yelled, and bore 
 For the shore; 
 The logs gave a grind. 
 Like a wolf's jaws behind, 
 And as quick as a flash, 
 With a shove and a crash. 
 They were down in a mash. 
 But I and ten men. 
 All, but Isaac Dufour, 
 Were ashore. 
 
 He leaped on a log in front of the rush. 
 
 And shot out from the bend. 
 
 While the jam roared behind; 
 
 As he floated along. 
 
 He balanced his pole. 
 
 And tossed us a song. 
 
 But just as we cheered, 
 Up darted a log from the bottom, 
 Leaped thirty feet, fair and square, 
 And came down on his own. 
 
 He went up like a block 
 
 With the shock; 
 
 And when he was there, 
 
 In the air, 
 
 Kissed his hand 
 
 To the land. 
 
 When he dropped 
 
 My heart stopped. 
 
 For the front logs had caught him;
 
 The Music of the Reel ^'] 
 
 And crushed him; 
 When he rose in his place 
 There was blood on his face. 
 
 There were some girls, Baptiste, 
 Picking berries on the hillside, 
 Where the river curls, Baptiste, 
 You know — on the still side; 
 She was down by the water. 
 She saw Isaac 
 Fall back. 
 
 She didn't scream, Baptiste; 
 She launched her canoe — 
 It did seem, Baptiste, 
 That she wanted to die too, 
 For before you could think. 
 The birch cracked like a shell 
 In that rush of hell, 
 And I saw them both sink — 
 
 Baptiste ! — 
 
 He had two girls, 
 One is Virginie; 
 What God calls the other 
 Is not known to me. 
 
 Duncan Campbell Scott. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE REEL 
 
 Come ! All ye jolly fishermen, who love a cheerful song 
 Around the blazing camp-fire, where hearts are true and 
 leal. 
 To the gentle art whose mysteries ye have studied well and 
 long, 
 And join with me in praise of the " music of the reel! " 
 
 They may prate to us of Wagner, or Beethoven, or Mozart, 
 Of harmony and melody, ecstatically kneel
 
 58 The Mixer 
 
 In soul-entrancing rapture at the shrine of classic art — 
 But we love the simple rhythm of the " music of the reel." 
 
 By the swiftly rushing river, or the calm and peaceful lake, 
 Where Nature's choir makes music that the dullest soul 
 must feel; 
 When the sun peeps through the tree-tips, calling slumberers 
 to wake, 
 Then the heart beats time responsive to the " music of 
 the reel." 
 
 There's gladness in the bird's wild flight, or rush of captured 
 fish; 
 Contentment in a hard-earned bag or in a well-filled creel; 
 But the sportsman's pulse-beats quicken as he hears the well- 
 known " swish," 
 And the line runs whistling merrily " the music of the 
 reel." 
 
 Then a health to all true fishermen, a bumper let it be ! 
 Shake up the blazing pine-knots ere the shades upon us 
 steal ! 
 And when the darksome night sinks down, and we but dimly 
 see. 
 May whispering memories sing to us " the music of the 
 reel!" 
 
 J. M. Baylis. 
 
 THE MIXER 
 
 They are fresh from all creation, from the lands beyond the 
 
 seas. 
 Where a man accepts existence by the grace of "if you 
 
 please," 
 From the homes of rank and title, from the slums of want 
 
 and woe. 
 They are coming as the cattle that have nowhere else to go; 
 They are haggard, huddled, homeless, frightened at — they 
 
 know not what; 
 With a few unique exceptions they're a disappointing lot; 
 But I take 'em as I get 'em, soldier, sailor, saint, and clown, 
 And I turn 'em out Canadians — all but the yellow and brown.
 
 The Mixer 59 
 
 Oh, I take 'em from the counter, the factory, the mine. 
 They are rough-and-ready rascals till I lick 'em into line; 
 They are coming, coming, coming, from the land of Who- 
 
 Knows-Where ; 
 Black and white and many-tinted, brown and yellow, dark 
 
 and fair; 
 They are coming from the valley, from the prairie, from the 
 
 hill. 
 They are coming from the "May I?" to the country of 
 
 "I Will"; 
 And for some the smart of failure, and for some achievement's 
 
 crown. 
 As I roll 'em out Canadians — all but the yellow and brown. 
 
 In my new-made day-old cities I apply them to the test, 
 Where they mix and clash and scramble with the Spirit of the 
 
 West; 
 With the lust of gain before them, and the lust of sin within, 
 Where a few go down the deeper, but the many rise and win ; 
 Where the sons of men are equal in the eyes of other men, 
 And the man who falls defeated rises up to fight again; 
 I mix 'em, mix 'em, mix 'em, in the turmoil of the town, 
 As I turn 'em out Canadians — all but the yellow and brown. 
 
 And I take 'em in the forest, where the axes bite the tree, 
 And I school 'em in the building of this country of the free; 
 In the vermin-glutted bunk-house they can spend the stingy 
 
 nights. 
 Where their only recreations are the " blow-outs " and the 
 
 fights ; 
 In the spring they're on the river, where the logs go racing by, 
 And they haven't time to wonder who will be the next to die, 
 There are some will ride in safety, while the others quietly 
 
 drown, 
 As I turn 'em out Canadians — all but the yellow and brown. 
 
 In the camps of railway builders you will find 'em by the 
 
 score, 
 Where a man is set to doing things he never saw before. 
 Where they set the greenhorn handling glycerine and 
 
 dynamite — 
 Just a stumble or a mishap and it blows him out of sight —
 
 6o The Mixer 
 
 Where the Yankee fights with fire-armS; and the Dago with 
 
 his knife, 
 And a little bit of banter may cost a man his life; 
 Where they learn to reach for weapons at the signal of a 
 
 frown — 
 There I turn 'em out Canadians — all but the yellow and brown. 
 
 In the silent sunMt prairies they are listening to the call 
 That is calling, caUing, calling, " Come you up, why will you 
 
 fall? 
 Here is pay for every worker, here's reward for honest toil. 
 And a man may grow to heaven if his roots are in the soil." 
 They are putting off the old things, they are trying on the new, 
 In the battle with conditions they are proving what is true; 
 They are earnest, they are hopeful, and no hand can hold 
 
 them down. 
 As I roll 'em out Canadians — all but the yellow and brown. 
 
 In the great big white-walled winter, when the soul cries out 
 
 in dread — 
 In the nameless dread of winter when the summer hopes are 
 
 dead — 
 When the thoughts turn backward, backward, to the land 
 
 beyond the sea. 
 And the weak ones and the false ones would renounce their 
 
 faith in me — 
 Then I curse them, starve them, freeze them, until every 
 
 naked bone 
 Rattles in the howling blizzard, " I accept you as my own." 
 In the sacrament of suffering their memories I drown 
 As I roll 'em out Canadians — all but the black and brown. 
 
 In the city, on the prairie, in the forest, in the camp. 
 In the mountain clouds of colour, in the fog-white river damp. 
 From Atlantic to Pacific, from the Great Lakes to the Pole, 
 I am mixing strange ingredients into a common whole; 
 Every hope shall build upon me, ever}' heart shall be my own, 
 The ambitions of my people shall be mine, and mine alone; 
 Not a sacrifice so great, but they will gladly lay it down. 
 When I turn them out Canadians — all but the black and 
 brown.
 
 A Prairie Heroine 6i 
 
 A PRAIRIE HEROINE 
 
 They were running out the try lines, they were staking out 
 the grade; 
 
 Through the hills they had to measure, through the sloughs 
 they had to wade; 
 
 They were piercing unknown regions, they were crossing name- 
 less streams. 
 
 With the prairie for a pillow, and the sky above their dreams; 
 
 They were mapping unborn cities in the age-long pregnant 
 clay, 
 
 When they came upon a Httle mound across the right-of-way. 
 
 There were violets growing on it, and a buttercup or two, 
 
 That whispered of affection ever old and ever new. 
 
 And a little ring of white-washed stones, light in the summer 
 
 sun. 
 But of marble slab or granite, pile or pillar, there was none; 
 And across the sleeping prairie lay a little, low-built shack. 
 With a garden patch before it and a wheat-field at its back. 
 
 " Well, boys, we'd better see him, and he hadn't ought to kick, 
 For we'll give him time to move it if he does it pretty quick." 
 But — scarcely had the foreman spoke when straight across 
 
 the farm 
 They saw the settler coming with a rifle on his arm; 
 Some would ha' hiked for cover but they had no place to run. 
 But most of them decided they would stay and see the fun. 
 
 The farmer was the first to speak, " I hate to interfere. 
 And right glad I am to see the railway comin' near; 
 But before you drive your pickets across this piece of land 
 You ought to hear the story or you will not understand : 
 It's the story of a girl who was as true as she was brave. 
 And all that now remains of her is in that little grave. 
 
 " I didn't want to bring her when I hit the trail out West, 
 I knew I shouldn't do it, and I did my level best 
 To coax her not to come out for a year or two, at least. 
 But to stay and take it easy with her friends down in the 
 East;
 
 62 A Prairie Heroine 
 
 But while I coaxed and argued I was feelin' mighty glum, 
 And right down in my heart I kep' a-hopin' she would come. 
 
 " Well, by rail and boat and saddle we got out here at last, 
 A-livin' in the future, and forgettin' of the past; 
 We built ourseh^es a little home, and in our work and care 
 It seemed to me she always took what was the lion's share; 
 God knows just what she suffered, but she hid it with a smile. 
 And made out that she thought I was the only thing worth 
 while. 
 
 " She stood it through the summer and the warm brown 
 
 days of fall. 
 And of the voices calling her she would not hear the call; 
 But when the winter settled with its cold, white pall of snow. 
 She seemed to whiten with it, but she thought I did not know; 
 At last I couldn't stand it any longer, so I said, 
 ' I think you'd better try and spend a day or two in bed 
 While I go for a doctor. It's only sixty miles ! ' 
 She gave a little wistful look, half hidden in her smiles. 
 And said, ' Perhaps you'd better, though I think I'll be all 
 
 right 
 When the spring comes.' — Well, I started out that night. 
 
 " I made the trip on horseback, and we floundered on all 
 
 night. 
 And reached our destination in the early morning light. 
 But the doctor had gone out of town — just where, no one 
 
 could say. 
 And a lump rose in my chest that fairly took my breath 
 
 away. 
 But I daren't stay there thinking, and my search for him 
 
 was vain. 
 So I bought some wine and brandy and I started home again. 
 
 " Forgetful of my horse, I spent the whole night on the road. 
 Till early in the morning he collapsed beneath his load; 
 I saw the brute was done for, and although it made me cry, 
 I hacked into his jug'lar vein and left him there to die; 
 And then I shouldered the supplies and staggered on alone. 
 And thinking of my wife's distress, I quite forgot my own.
 
 A Prairie Heroine 63 
 
 " She must ha' watched all night for me^ for in the morning 
 
 grey 
 She saw me stagger in the snow, and fall beside the way, 
 And God knows how she did it — she was only skin and bone — 
 But she came out here and found me and dragged me home 
 
 alone, 
 And she took the precious liquor that had cost us all so dear, 
 And poured it down this worthless hulk that's standin' 
 
 blattin' here. 
 
 " I guess you know what happened : I Hved, she passed away; 
 I robed her in her wedding-dress and laid her in the clay; 
 And every spring I plant the flowers that grow upon her 
 
 grave. 
 For I hold the spot as sacred as the Arimathean's cave : 
 And when the winter snows have come, and all is white and 
 
 still, 
 I spread a blanket on the mound to keep out frost and chill. 
 
 " Folks say I've got a screw loose, that I've gone to acting 
 
 queer, 
 But I sometimes hear her speaking, and I know she's always 
 
 near; 
 And sometimes in the night I feel the pressure of her hand 
 And for a blessed hour I share with her the Promised Land : — 
 Let man or devil undertake to desecrate my dead. 
 And as sure as God's in heaven I will pump him full of lead." 
 
 They were rough-and-ready railway men who stood about 
 
 the spot. 
 They were men that hed and gambled, they were men that 
 
 drank and fought. 
 But some of them were sneezing, and some were coughing 
 
 bad. 
 And some were blowing noses on anything they had; 
 And some of them were swallowing at lumps that shouldn't 
 
 come. 
 And some were swearing softly, and some were simply dumb. 
 
 At last the foreman found his voice; " I guess your claim is 
 
 sound, 
 I wouldn't care to run a track across that piece of ground;
 
 64 Rough Ben 
 
 We'll have to change our lay-out but I hope we have the 
 
 grace 
 To build a fitting monument to mark that holy place; 
 Put me down for a hundred; now, boys, how much for you? " 
 And they answered in a chorus, " We'll see the business 
 
 through." 
 
 The passengers upon a certain railway o'er the plain 
 See a shining shaft of marble from the windows of the train, 
 But they do not know the story of the girl-wife in the snow 
 And the broken-hearted farmer with his lonely load of woe. 
 And none of them have guessed that the deflection in the line 
 Is the railway builders' tribute to a prairie heroine. 
 
 R. J. C. Stead. 
 
 ROUGH BEN 
 (An Incident 0/ the North-West Rebellion) 
 
 " Starved to death," sounds kind 0' hard, eh? 
 
 But it's true I'm holdin' this 'ere knife. 
 An' that woman dumped in the grave to-day 
 
 Yes, " starved to death," sir, 'pon my Hfe. 
 
 Ye wonder how in a land o' plenty 
 
 When even Injuns wallop around 
 With their belts a-loosened of over feedin'. 
 
 Fur a poor white critter grub ain't found. 
 
 Well; 'y' see ther's starvin' deeper'n eatin', 
 An thet thar woman we slid to-day 
 
 Ain't died o' want of bannock and bacon; 
 No ! but a durned sight crueller way. 
 
 S'posin' ye sit on the fence rail, mister. 
 Fur I ain't a-goin' to plow nor sow. 
 
 See them there oxen — " G'long, ye beggars! " — 
 (The flies is eatin' their heads off) " Whoa! "
 
 Rough Ben 65 
 
 Wal'^ some three years ago'n — no matter — 
 When this yer' place wam't much to see, 
 
 Me and Bill Martin and Bo'lin's brother 
 Cum and squatted^ jest whar' we be. 
 
 An by'm'bye other folkSj leamin' 
 
 Land in the great Nor- West had riz, 
 Cum pourin' in top o' one another, 
 
 Each squatter claimin' a patch as his. 
 
 An' among the lot that came tom-foolin' 
 
 Was an English chap as had no right 
 To s'periment with a Nor- West winter; 
 
 The fool bro't his sister an' took up a site. 
 
 Wal', he pitched his tent ('twas a waggon cover), 
 An' thar' they lived all summer thro', 
 
 An' managed some way by winter cummin' 
 To knock up a shack — jest them thar two. 
 
 They didn't mix with the folks 'en gen'l. 
 
 But kep in like, an' read fine books. 
 An' after a spell the lad got aiHn', 
 
 With worrit an' fretted an' pinched-like looks,: 
 
 An' soon he stopped goin' out to water 
 The cattle (two head o' steer he'd bought), 
 
 I see'd the gal a-tryin' to lead 'em. 
 An' I up an' offers to guide the lot. 
 
 She wasn't proud with me, sir, never, 
 
 Her little hand 'ud lay in my own 
 Like a grasshopper's wing on an acre of fallow; 
 
 An' her eyes ! my God ! they'd melt a stone. 
 
 Wal, he pinched, and coughed, an' nigher'n nigher. 
 What she, cryin', called " Death's Angel " cum. 
 
 An' off he went like a snuff 0' candle, 
 A-takin a homestead beyond the sun. 
 
 We ploughed him in — when the sun was settin', 
 On'y we na'bours around you see;
 
 66 Rough Ben 
 
 An' we left him covered, an' her a-cryin' 
 Sumthin' about " Come back to me." 
 
 An' the cattle died — I'm blest if they didn't, 
 Contrary like — and the claim he owned, 
 
 An' plow'd an' sow'd 'th his two gent's handles, 
 Want worth a durn when the Injuns cum, 
 
 I found her sittin' and kinder cryin' 
 
 By the hill as whar' we had rolled him in; 
 
 Lookin' so peaked an' white an' ghost-like 
 I felt like wishin' she was with him. 
 
 Wal ! The cattle was dead, the ground w'arnt ready, 
 
 An' the Injuns threat'nin' every day 
 To hang our wigs to the belts as held 'em 
 
 Chock full of rot-gut, spite of Hudson's Bay, 
 
 All at onc't I see'd her trouble, 
 
 'Twas want o' wimmin to cuddle her in. 
 
 An' the nearest petticoat too, by thunder! 
 Thirty miles off — an' she lived by sin. 
 
 An' sooner'n that — wal, I'd give her, 
 The best I owned, sir, my land an' Hfe; 
 
 It was shelter, you see, an' Injuns comin' 
 Jest frightened her into a-bein' my wife. 
 
 Oh ! Ye may star' an' handle yer shooter. 
 But, afore high God, she was dear to me; 
 
 I toted her back to my old log cabin. 
 An' worshipp'd the groun' she walked — an' she? 
 
 Wal, she tried to smile and call me " Benny," 
 When all my life I'd been called " Rough Ben," 
 
 An' I carted her roun' like you'd a luck penny. 
 An' the Injuns? Oh, Gov'ment settled them. 
 
 I mind the troops cum marchin' up here. 
 
 An' the garrison we was all shut in, 
 An' among the redcoats thet came paradin' 
 
 Was as handsom' a chap as ever I seen.
 
 Rough Ben 67 
 
 An' while we popped at the red-skins' top-nots, 
 
 Them soldier fellows as saved our lives 
 Cum marchin' into the wood-pile barracks, 
 
 An' what did I see with my own two eyes, 
 
 But my Httle girl as I took under cover 
 
 Grow red an' white and fell like a star; 
 When out from the file that peart-faced stranger 
 
 Shot like an arrow to whar' she war^ 
 
 Uncle, sez I, or cousin, mebbe. 
 
 As went to school whar' she got them books ? 
 But when he kissed my gal I " tumbled," 
 
 An' shook Hke the leaves that shadder the brooks. 
 
 An' then and thar' I lamed her story 
 (Too late ! for now she was straight my wife). 
 
 For th^ parson said 'twas for ever an' ever, 
 An' her nor me couldn't alter our Hfe. 
 
 Wal, that evenin' I left them airly 
 
 (Tm a-going' to lead a duck, I sed), 
 But I know'd that wench's heart was breakin', 
 
 An' I gave her a chance to skip 'th the lad. 
 
 But she didn't — I found her thar', 
 
 Mendin' an' bakin' the usual way, 
 But a look in her eyes thar' was like unto 
 
 A threat'nin' rain on a summer day. 
 
 He'd gone an' left her to me as took her 
 
 Jest fur to give her shelter an' care, 
 (I know'd 'f the brother 'd lived she'd never 
 
 A-looked at me, mor'n them oxen thar). 
 
 Somehow she kinder wilted, an' never 
 
 Ask'd no questions, but sort o' still; 
 With thet look of hunger, a-eatin' her heart out — 
 
 Thet's the kind 0' starvin' is sure to kill. 
 
 I fetch'd the best of eatin' an' drinkin' 
 As was to be bo't in them times out here;
 
 68 The Spell of the Yukon 
 
 But the days went slidin' into winter, 
 
 An', mister, with snow-fly an empty cheer. 
 
 She slid away from me sort o' quiet, 
 W never a moan, but " Benny, good night! " 
 
 An' me an the neighbours, as alius loved her, 
 Tuck'd her beside him, jest out o' sight. 
 
 An' the soldier-lover that left her starvin', 
 I'd like to put a ball through his hide. 
 
 What? honour! Another's!! Y ou loved her !! ! 
 My God ! You're the chap for who she died 1 
 
 Gimme your hand, and here above her, 
 Altho' she was mine by a parson's swar', 
 
 I havn't no right to that gal's ashes. 
 She died for you, an' you left her thar'. 
 
 Me and me oxen's movin' Westward, 
 
 You and the gal's best left alone; 
 She'll rest contenteder; good-bye, I'm goin'. 
 
 The claim is your'n, go claim your own. 
 
 K. B. Simpson. 
 
 THE SPELL OF THE YUKON 
 
 I WANTED the gold and I sought it; 
 
 I scrabbled and worked like a slave. 
 Was it famine or scurvy? — I fought it; 
 
 I hurled my youth into a grave. 
 I wanted the gold and I got it — 
 
 Came out with a fortune last fall — 
 Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. 
 
 And somehow the gold isn't all. 
 
 No, there's the land (have you seen it?) 
 It's the cussedest land that I know. 
 
 From the big dizzy mountains that screen it, 
 To the deep death-like valleys below.
 
 The Spell of the Yukon 69 
 
 Some say God was tired when he made it; 
 
 Some say it's a fine land to shun; 
 May be: but there's some as would trade it 
 
 For no land on earth — and I'm one. 
 
 You come to get rich (damned good reason), 
 
 You feel like an exile at first; 
 You hate it like hell for a season, 
 
 And then you are worse than the worst. 
 It grips you like some kinds of sinning; 
 
 It twists you from foe to friend; 
 It seems it's been since the beginning; 
 
 It seems it will be to the end. 
 
 I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow 
 
 That's plumb full of hush to the brim ; 
 I've watched the big, husky sun wallow 
 
 In crimson and gold, and grow dim, 
 Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, 
 
 And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop, 
 And I thought that I surely was dreaming. 
 
 With the peace of the world piled on top. 
 
 The summer — no sweeter was ever; 
 
 The sunshiny woods all a- thrill; 
 The greyling asleep in the river. 
 
 The bighorn asleep on the hill. 
 The strong life that never knows harness ; 
 
 The wilds where the caribou call; 
 The freshness, the freedom, the famess — 
 
 God ! how I'm stuck on it all. 
 
 The winter ! the brightness that blinds you. 
 
 The white land looked tight as a drum. 
 The cold fear that follows and finds you, 
 
 The silence that bludgeons you dumb. 
 The snows that are older than history. 
 
 The woods where the weird shadows slant; 
 The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery, 
 
 I've bade 'em good-bye — but I can't. 
 
 There's a land where the mountains are nameless. 
 And the rivers all run God knows where;
 
 70 The Ballad of Hard-Luck Henry- 
 There are lives that are erring and aimless, 
 
 And deaths that just hang by a hair; 
 There are hardships that nobody reckons; 
 
 There are valleys unpeopled and still; 
 There's a land — oh ! it beckons and beckons. 
 
 And I want to go back — and I will. 
 
 They are making my money diminish; 
 
 I'm sick of the taste of champagne, 
 Thank God ! when I'm skinned to a finish 
 
 I'll pike to the Yukon again. 
 I'll fight — and you bet it's no sham fight; 
 
 It's hell — but I've been there before; 
 And it's better than this by a damsite — 
 
 So now for the Yukon once more. 
 
 There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting; 
 
 It's luring me on as of old; 
 Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting. 
 
 So much as just finding the gold. 
 It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder, 
 
 It's the forests where silence has lease; 
 It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. 
 
 It's the stillness that fills me with peace. 
 
 R. W. Service. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF HARD-LUCK HENRY 
 
 Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank 
 That's staked out three hundred claims, and every one a 
 
 blank ; 
 That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and 
 
 fall 
 Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at 
 
 all; 
 That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song 
 To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along; 
 That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight. 
 Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and 
 
 right?
 
 The Ballad of Hard-Luck Henry 71 
 
 Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to boose? 
 But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof — he knew the way 
 to lose. 
 
 'Twas in the fall of nineteen four — leap year I've heard them 
 
 say — 
 When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a hillside 
 
 lay. 
 And lo ! as if to make amends for all the futile past, 
 Late in the year he struck it rich, the real pay streak at last. 
 The ripples of his sluicing box were choked with speckled 
 
 earth, 
 And night and day he worked that lay for all that he was 
 
 worth, 
 And when in chill December's gloom his lucky lease expired, 
 He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired. 
 
 One day while meditating on the waywardness of fate, 
 He felt the ache of lonely man to find a fitting mate; 
 A petticoated pard to cheer his solitary life, 
 A woman with soft, soothing ways, a confidant, a wife. 
 And while he cooked his supper on his little Yukon stove. 
 He wished that he had staked a claim in love's rich treasure- 
 trove ; 
 When suddenly he paused and held aloft a Yukon egg, 
 For there in pencilled letters was the magic name of Peg. 
 
 You know those Yukon eggs of ours — some pink, some green, 
 
 some blue — 
 A dollar for assorted tints, assorted flavours too. 
 The supercilious cheechako might designate them high, 
 But one acquires a taste for them and likes them by and by. 
 
 Well, Hard-Luck Henry took this egg and held it to the light. 
 And there was more faint pencilling that sorely taxed his 
 
 sight. 
 At last he made it out and the legend ran Hke this — 
 " Will Klondike Miner write to Peg, Plumhollow, Squashville, 
 
 Wis.?" 
 
 That night he got to thinking of this far-oflf, unknown fair; 
 It seemed so sort of opportune, an answer to his prayer.
 
 72 The Ballad of Hard-Luck Henry- 
 She flitted sweetly through his dreams, she haunted him by 
 
 day, 
 She smiled through clouds of nicotine, she cheered his weary 
 
 way. 
 At last he jnelded to the spell; his course of love he set — 
 Wisconsin his objective point; his object Margaret. 
 
 With every mile of sea and land his longing grew and grew. 
 He practised all his pretty words, and these, I fear, were 
 
 few. 
 At last one frosty evening, with a cold chill down his spine. 
 He found himself before her house, the threshold of the 
 
 shrine. 
 
 His courage flickered to a spark, then glowed with sudden 
 
 flame — 
 He knocked; he heard a welcome word; she came — his 
 
 goddess came. 
 Oh, she was fair as any flower, and huskily he spoke: 
 " I'm all the way from Klondike, with a mighty heavy 
 
 poke. 
 I'm looking for a lassie, one whose Christian name is Peg, 
 Who sought a Klondike miner and wrote it on an egg." 
 
 The lassie gazed at him a space, her cheeks grew rosy red; 
 She gazed at him with tear-bright eyes, then tenderly she 
 
 said: 
 " Yes, lonely Klondike miner, it is true my name is Peg, 
 It is also true I longed for you and wrote it on an egg. 
 My heart went out to some one in that land of night and 
 
 cold; 
 But oh, I fear that Yukon egg must have been mighty old. 
 I waited long, I hoped, I feared; you should have come 
 
 before; 
 I've been a wedded woman now for eighteen months or 
 
 more. 
 I'm sorry, since you've come so far, you ain't the one that 
 
 wins; 
 But won't you take a step inside — I'll let you see the twins" 
 
 R. W. Service.
 
 The Trail of Gold 73 
 
 THE TRAIL OF GOLD 
 
 Under the ward of the Polar Sea, 
 
 Where the great Auroras snap and blaze, 
 There are crashing blows on the icy bar 
 
 That is set at the end of the open ways. 
 There are axes ringing across the crest, 
 
 The sluices shackle the streams that rolled, 
 As the gamesters gather from east and west, 
 
 The men that follow the Trail of Gold. 
 
 A black line crawls o'er the glacier's face, 
 
 Where the worn pack-horses scrape and slide; 
 The muskeg swallows and leaves no trace, 
 
 The boats go down on the snow-swelled tides 
 Blood and bones on the snow and sod. 
 
 From the caiions black to the barrens gray, 
 Blaze the trail that the vanguard trod, 
 
 That those who follow may find the way. 
 
 There are strange ships west of the lonely isles 
 
 Where the red volcanoes bum and freeze; 
 There's a fading wake o'er the misty miles. 
 
 There are smokes that trouble the Smoky Seas^ 
 There are corpses swept from the sinking hull, 
 
 As the steamer dips to the swelling gale. 
 For the rising shark and the wheeling gull 
 
 That hunt the sea on the Golden Trail. 
 
 The storm sweeps out from its Polar den, 
 
 Till the air grows dense with the cutting snow; 
 The north makes mock of the sons of men. 
 
 As the diggers he in the drifts below. 
 The workers Ue where the last work ceased. 
 
 The strong men scatter the lifeless wold; 
 And the tall wolves howl at the gathered feast — 
 
 The hounds that hunt on the Scent of Gold. 
 
 Frank L. Pollock.
 
 74 The Deacon and His Daughter 
 
 THE DEACON AND HIS DAUGHTER 
 
 He saved his soul an' saved his pork 
 
 With old time preservation; 
 He didn't hold with creosote 
 
 Or new plans of salvation : 
 He said that " works would show the man, 
 The smoke house tell upon the ham." 
 
 He didn't when he sunk a well 
 
 Inspect the stuns and gravel 
 Tew prove that Moses was a dunce 
 
 Unfit for furin travel; 
 He marvelled at them works uv God — 
 An' broke 'em up tew mend the road. 
 
 An' when the circus cum around, 
 He hitched his sleek old horses, 
 
 An' in his rattling waggon took 
 His dimpled household forces — 
 
 The boys tew wonder at the clown 
 
 An' think his lot life's highest crown. 
 
 He wondered at the zebra wild, 
 Nor knew 'em painted donkeys; 
 
 An' when he gev the boys a dime 
 Fur cakes to feed the monkeys, 
 
 He never thought in enny shape, 
 
 He hed descended from an ape. 
 
 An' when he saw some shallow-pate, 
 With smallest brain possession; 
 
 He uttered no filosophy 
 On natur's retrogression 
 
 Tew ancient types, by Darwin's rule; 
 
 He simply sed, " Wali, dum a fool! " 
 
 He never had an enemy 
 
 But once a year, tew meetin'
 
 The Deacon and His Daughter y ^ 
 
 When he and deacon Maybee fought 
 
 On questions uv free seatin', 
 Or which should be the one t' rebuke 
 Pastor for kissin' sister Luke. 
 
 His farm was well enough, but stones 
 
 Kind uv stem, ruthless facts is; 
 And he jest made out tew save a mite 
 
 An' pay his righteous taxes, 
 An' mebbe tote sum flour an' pork 
 Tew poor old critters past their work. 
 
 But on the neatest thing he had 
 
 Around the place or dwellin' 
 I guess he never paid a red 
 
 Uv taxes. No mush melon 
 Was rounder, pinker, sweeter than 
 The old man's daughter, Minta Ann. 
 
 I've been at Philadelfy's show 
 
 An' other similar fusses, 
 An' seen a mighty sight uv stone 
 
 Minarveys and Venusses, 
 An' Sikeys clad in flowers an' wings, 
 But not much show of factory things. 
 
 I've seen the hull entire crowd 
 
 Uv Jove's female relations, 
 An' I feel tew make a solemn swar 
 
 On them thar " Lamentations," 
 That as a sort of general plan 
 I'd rather spark with Minta Ann. 
 
 You'd ought tew see her dimpled chin, 
 
 With one red freckle on it. 
 Her brown eyes glancing underneath 
 
 Her tilted shaker bonnet ; 
 I vow I often did desire 
 They'd set the plaguey thing a-fire. 
 
 You'd ought tew hear that gal sing 
 On Sabbath, up tew meetin',
 
 76 The Deacon and His Daughter 
 
 You'd kind uv feel high lifted up, 
 
 Yer soul fur heaven fleetin'. 
 An' then came supper, down she'd tie 
 Ye tew the earth with pumpkin pie ! 
 
 I tell ye, stranger, 'twas a sight 
 
 Fur poetry and speeches 
 Tew see her sitten' on the stoop, 
 
 A-peelin' scarlet peaches 
 Inter the kettle at her feet — 
 I tell ye, 'twas a show complete, 
 
 Drip-droppin' thru the rustlin' vine 
 The sunbeams came a-fiitten', 
 
 An' sort uv danced upon the floor, 
 Chased by the tabby kitten ; 
 
 Losh, tew see the critter's big surprise 
 
 When them beams slipped into Minta's eyes. 
 
 An' down her brow her pretty har 
 Cum curlin', crinklin', creepin' 
 
 In leetle yaller mites uv rings. 
 Inter them bright eyes peepin', 
 
 Es run the tendrils uv the vine 
 
 Tew whar the merry sunbeams shine. 
 
 But losh ! her smile was drefful shy 
 An' kept her white lids under; 
 
 Jest as when darkens up the sky 
 An' growls away the thunder, 
 
 Them sheeny speckled trout will hide 
 
 Beneath them white pond-lilies' pride. 
 
 An' then her heart, 'twas made clar thru 
 
 Uv Caleforny metal. 
 Chock full uv things es sugar sweet 
 
 Es a presarvin' kettle, 
 The beaux went crazed for nienny a mile 
 When I got the kettle on the bile. 
 
 The good old deacon's gone to whar 
 Thar ain't no mild contentions
 
 La Blanchisseuse ^'j 
 
 On Buildin' Funds Committees an' 
 
 No taxes or exemptions; 
 Yet still I sorter feel he preaches 
 An' Minta Ann presarves my peaches. 
 
 LA BLANCHISSEUSE 
 
 Margaton at early dawn 
 
 Thro' the vineyard takes her way, 
 With her basket filled with lawn 
 
 And with kerchiefs red and gay, 
 To the stream which bubbles past 
 
 Grove, chateau, and clanking mill. 
 As it runs it chatters fast 
 Like a woman with a will: 
 
 " Blanchisseuse, Blanchisseuse, 
 Here I come from Picardyl 
 Hurry off thy wooden shoes, 
 I will wash thy clothes with thee! " 
 
 Margaton's a shapely maid ; 
 
 Laughter haunts her large soft eye; 
 When she trips by vineyard shade 
 
 Trips the sun with her, say I. 
 Wooden shoes she lays aside. 
 
 Puts her linen in the rill, 
 And the stream in gossip's pride 
 Chatters to her with a will : 
 " Blanchisseuse, Blanchisseuse, 
 I — I know a thing or two ! 
 Thus this is the latest news. 
 
 Some one dreams of eyes of blue ! " 
 
 Margaton her linen wrings 
 White beneath her ruddy hands; 
 
 O'er her feet the rillet sings 
 Dimpling all its golden sands: 
 
 Hawthorn blushes touch her hair, 
 Birdlings twitter sweet and shrill.
 
 78 La Blanchisseuse 
 
 Sunbeams seek her everywhere; 
 Gossips on the wordy rill: 
 
 " Blanchisseuse, Blanchisseuse, 
 
 He who dreams has land and flocks ! 
 Margaton may idly choose 
 
 Pebbles in the place of rocks! " 
 
 Margaton her linen treads, 
 
 Ankle-dimple deep her feet; 
 Nod the stately green fern heads, 
 
 Nod the violets damp and sweet; 
 Dewy places in the wood 
 
 With the ruddy morning fill; 
 Silenter the downy brood 
 Chatters on the gossip rill: 
 
 " Blanchisseuse, Blanchisseuse, 
 
 He who dreams is rich and great ! 
 Margaton may idly choose 
 Golden sorrow for a mate ! " 
 
 Margaton her linen wrings ; 
 
 Day's gold goblet overflows; 
 Leaves are stirred with glancing wings; 
 
 One can smell the distant rose. 
 " Silly stream, the cure said 
 
 Just such warning yesterday! " 
 Rippling o'er its pebbly bed. 
 
 Still the stream would have its say: 
 " Blanchisseuse, Blanchisseuse, 
 Yet another tale I know — 
 Some one dreams of, runs my news, 
 Golden heart in bosom's snow! " 
 
 Margaton her linen spreads. 
 
 On the violet bank to dry; 
 Droop the willows low their heads, 
 
 Curious, for her low reply: 
 " Dearest stream, but yesternight 
 
 Whispered Jean those words to me ! " 
 And the rillet in its flight 
 
 Buzzed and murmured like a bee:
 
 The Farmer's Daughter Cherry 79 
 
 " Blanchisseuse, Blanchisseuse, 
 
 He who dreams is good and true ! 
 How can Margaton refuse? 
 Blanchisseuse, adieu, adieu." 
 
 THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER CHERRY 
 
 The farmer quit what he was at, 
 
 The bee-hive he was smokin' ; 
 He tilted back his old straw hat — 
 
 Says he, " Young man, you're jokin' ! 
 
 Lordy ! — Lord forgive the swar — 
 Ain't ye a cheeky sinner? 
 
 Come, if I give my girl thar. 
 Where would you find her dinner? 
 
 " Now, look at me, I settled down 
 
 When I was one-and-twenty, 
 Me, and my axe, and Mrs. Brown, 
 
 And stony land a plenty. 
 Look up thar! ain't that homestead fine? 
 
 And look at them thar cattle: 
 
 1 tell ye, since that early time 
 I've fit a tidy battle. 
 
 " It kinder wrestles down a man 
 
 To fight the stuns and mire: 
 But I sort of clutch'd to that thar plan 
 
 Of David and Goliar. 
 Want was the mean old Phihstine 
 
 That strutted round the clearin', 
 Of pebbles I'd a hansum line, 
 
 And flung 'em, nothin' fearin'. 
 
 " They hit him square, right whar they ought; 
 
 Them times I had an arm ! 
 I lick'd the giant, and I bought 
 
 A hundred acre farm.
 
 8o The Farmer's Daughter Cherry 
 
 My gal was bom about them days — 
 I was mowin' in the medder, 
 
 When some one comes along and says, 
 " The wife's gone thro' the shadder! " 
 
 " Times thought it was God's will she went- 
 
 Times thought she work'd too slavin'; 
 And for the young one that was sent 
 
 I took to steady savin'. 
 Just cast your eyes on that thar hill 
 
 The sugar bush just tetches, 
 And round by Miller Jackson's Mill, 
 
 All round the farm stretches. 
 
 " 'Ain't got a mind to give that land 
 
 To any snip-snap feller 
 That don't know loam from mud or sand, 
 
 Or if corn's blue or yaller. 
 I've got a mind to keep her yet; — 
 
 Last fall her cheese and butter 
 Took prizes; sakes! I can't forget 
 
 Her pretty pride and flutter. 
 
 " Why, you be off ! her little face 
 
 For me's the only summer; 
 Her gone, 'twould be a queer old place — 
 
 The Lord smile down upon her! 
 All goes with her, the house and lot — 
 
 You'd hke to get 'em, very! 
 I'll give 'em when the maple bears 
 
 A bouncin' ripe-red cherry! " 
 
 The farmer fixed his hat and specks. 
 
 And pressed his lips together; 
 The maple wav'd above his head. 
 
 Each gold and scarlet feather; 
 The teacher's honest heart sank down — 
 
 How could his soul be merry? 
 He knew — though teaching in a town — 
 
 No maple bears a cherry. 
 
 Soft blew the wind; the great old tree, 
 Like Saul to David's singing,
 
 I'll Follow Jane 8i 
 
 Nodded its jewelled cro\vn, as he 
 Swayed to the harp-strings' ringing; 
 
 A something rosy — not a leaf — 
 Stirs up among the branches; 
 
 A miracle may send relief 
 To lovers fond and anxious ! 
 
 rosy is the velvet cheek 
 
 Of one 'mid red leaves sitting ! 
 The sunbeams played at hide-and-seek 
 
 With the needles in her knitting. 
 " Pa! " the farmer prick'd his ears; 
 
 Whence came that voice so merry? 
 The teacher's thoughtful visage clears — 
 
 " The maple bears a cherry! " 
 
 The farmer tilted back his hat; 
 
 " Wellj gal — as I'm a human 
 I'll always hold as doctrine that 
 
 Thar's nothin' beats a woman ! 
 When crown'd that maple is with snow, 
 
 And Christmas bells are merry, 
 I'll let you have her, Jack — that's so ! 
 
 Be sure you're good to Cherry! " 
 
 Isabella Valancy Crawford. 
 
 I'LL FOLLOW JANE 
 
 I PUT my faith in Janey Smith, 
 
 Religion doesn't bother me; 
 It's somethin' I don't monkey with; 
 
 I never learned the trick — d'ye see? 
 They say I'm on the road to hell; 
 
 Jes so — I think my course is plain, 
 Fer I'm all right and doin' well — 
 
 I've put my faith in little Jane. 
 
 Religious folk hev struv and raved, 
 An' dun their best at " savin' " me — 
 
 What nonsense this fer I've bin saved; 
 The pen' tent bench was Janey's knee. 
 
 F
 
 82 The Habitant's Jubilee Ode 
 
 I promised Jane I wouldn't fight, 
 
 Ne'r chaw, ne'r swear, ne'r drink again; 
 
 My Saviour kem to me that night — 
 A well-worked scheme of Him and Jane. 
 
 I uster go to church and sich, 
 
 An' take pertracted meetins in, 
 They flammixed me, an' which was which 
 
 I couldn't tell amonxt the din. 
 This hell menagerie business hit 
 
 The wrong side up — it wasn't plain; 
 I can't surround the church a bit, 
 
 But I can understand my Jane. 
 
 She doesn't nag me 'bout my soul: 
 
 She doesn't say I'm soaked in sin; 
 She sits and sings Roll, Jordan, Roll, 
 
 An' I jest drop a chorus in; 
 An' when I tell her what they say, 
 
 Thet I am damned an sway behind, 
 She looks up in her gentle way 
 
 With " Do what's right an' never mind." 
 
 The Lord's right hand holds Janey's hand; 
 
 An' her right hand is holdin' me; 
 Their love is my salvation, an' 
 
 I'm proud to say salvation's free; 
 An' when I've kep my word a year, 
 
 An' wore off all the old-time stain. 
 Then I will read my title clear 
 
 To heaven on earth — and little Jane. 
 
 R. K. Kerningham. 
 
 THE HABITANT'S JUBILEE ODE 
 
 I READ on de paper mos' ev'ry day all about Jubilee 
 An' grande procession movin' along an' passin' across de sea, 
 Dats chil'ren of Queen Victoriaw comin' from far away 
 For tole madame wa't dey t'ink of her, an' wishin' her bonne 
 sante.
 
 The Habitant's Jubilee Ode 83 
 
 An' if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens should 
 
 be dere 
 Wit 'res' of de worF for shout " Hooraw " an' t'row hees cap 
 
 on de air, 
 Purty quick I will tole heem de reason w'y we feel lak de 
 
 Oder do, 
 For if I'm only poor habitant, I am not on the sapre fou. 
 
 Of course w'en we t'ink it de firs' go off, I know very strange 
 
 it seem 
 For fader of us dey was offen die for flag of L'Ancien Regime, 
 From day w'en de voyageurs out all de way from ole St. 
 
 Malo, 
 Flyin' dat flag from de mas' above, a' long affer dat also. 
 
 De English fight wit' de Frenchmen den over de whole 
 
 contree, 
 Down by de reever, off in de wood, and out on the beeg, beeg 
 
 sea, 
 Killin' and shootin', and raisin' row, half tarn dey don't 
 
 know wa't for, 
 W'en its jus' as easy get settle down, not makin' de crazy 
 
 war, 
 
 Sometam' de be quiet for leetle w'ile, you tink dey don't 
 
 fight no more. 
 An' den w'en dey' ere feelin' all right agen. Bang! jus' lak' 
 
 she was before. 
 Very offen we're beaten dem on de fight, sometam' dey can 
 
 beat us too. 
 But no feller's scare in de 'noder man, and bote got enough 
 
 to do. 
 
 An' all de long year she be go lak' dat, we never was know 
 
 de peace, 
 Not'ing but war from de wes' contree down to de St. Maurice; 
 Till de las' fights comin' on Canadaw, an' brave Generale 
 
 Montcalm 
 Die lak' a sojer of France is die on battle of Abraham. 
 
 Dat's finish it all, an' de English king is axin' us stayin' dere 
 We're we have sam' right as de 'noder peep comin' from 
 Angleterre.
 
 84 The Habitant's Jubilee Ode 
 
 Long tarn for our moder so far away de poor Canayens is 
 
 cry, 
 But de new step-moder slie's good an' kin', an' its all right 
 
 bi' me by. 
 
 If de moder come dead w'en you're small gar9on, leavin' you 
 
 dere alone, 
 Wit' nobody watchin' for fear you fall and hurt yourse'f on 
 
 de stone. 
 An' noder good woman she talc' your han' de sam' your own 
 
 moder do. 
 Is it right you don't call her moder, is it right you don't love 
 
 her too ? 
 
 Ba non, am dat was de way we feel w'en de ole Regime's 
 
 no more. 
 An' de new one come, but don't change moche, w'y its jus' 
 
 lak' it be before, 
 Spikin' Francais lak' we always do, an' de English dey mak' 
 
 no fuss » 
 
 An' our law de sam', wall, I don't know me 't'was better 
 
 mebbe for us. 
 
 So de sam' as two broder we settle down, leevin' dere han' 
 
 in han', 
 Knowin' each oder, we lak each oder de French an' de 
 
 Englishman. 
 For its curi's t'ing on dis worl', I'm sure you see it agen and 
 
 agen, 
 Dat offen de mos' worse ennemi, he's comin' de bes', bes' 
 
 frien'. 
 
 So we're kipin' so quiet long affer dat, w'en las' of de fightin's 
 
 done, 
 Dat plaintee is say, de new Canayens forget how to shoot de 
 
 gun; 
 But Yankee man's smart, all de worl' know dat, so he's firs' 
 
 fin' mistak' won day — 
 W'en he's try cross de line, fusil on hees han', near place dey 
 
 call Chateaugay.
 
 Little Bateese 85 
 
 Of course it's bad t'ing for poor Yankee man, De Salaberry 
 
 be dere 
 Wit' habitant farmer from down below, an' two bonder 
 
 Voltigeurs. 
 Dem feller come off de State, I s'pose was fightin' so hard 
 
 dey can, 
 But the blue coat soger he don't get kill, is de locky Yankee 
 
 man! 
 
 Since den w'en dey'se comin on Canadaw we always be treat 
 
 dem well. 
 For dey're speennin' de monee lak' gentilhommes an' stay 
 
 on de bes' hotel. 
 Den " Bienvenue," we will spik dem, an " Come back agen 
 
 nex' week. 
 So long you was kip on de quiet an' don't talk de politique." 
 
 Yaas, dat is de way Victoraw fin' us dis Jubilee, 
 
 Sometam' we mak' fuss about not'ing, but it's all on de 
 familee. 
 
 An' w'enever dere's danger roun' Her, no matter on sea or 
 Ian', 
 
 Sh'll find that les Canayens can fight de sam' as bes' English- 
 man. 
 
 An' onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag was fly — 
 Wit' deir English broder les Canayens is satisfy leev' an' die. 
 Dat's de message our fader geev us w'en dey're fallin' on 
 
 Chateaugay, 
 An' de flag was kipin' dem safe den, dats de wan we will 
 
 kip alway 1 
 
 LITTLE BATEESE 
 
 You bad little boy, not moche you care 
 
 How busy you're kipin' your poor gran'pere 
 
 Tryin' to stop you ev'ry day 
 
 Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay — 
 
 W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay? 
 
 Little Bateese!
 
 86 Little Bateese 
 
 Off on de fiel' you foller de plough 
 Den w'en you're tire you scare de cow 
 Lickin' de dog till dey jomp de wall 
 So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all — 
 An' you're only five an' a half dis fall, 
 
 Leetle Bateese! 
 
 Too sleepy for sa}an' de prayer to-night? 
 Never min', I s'pose w'll be all right; 
 Say dem to-morrow — ah ! dere he go ! 
 Fas' asleep in a minute or so — 
 An' he'll stay lak dat till de rooster crow, 
 
 Leetle Bateese! 
 
 Den wake us up right away tout suite 
 Lookin' for somet'ing more to eat, 
 Makin' me t'ink of dem long leg crane 
 Soon as dey swaller, dey start again, 
 T wonder your stomach don't get no pain, 
 
 Leetle Bateese! 
 
 But see heem now lyin' dere in bed. 
 Look at de arm ondemeat' hees head; 
 If he grow lak dat till he's twenty year 
 I'll bet he'll be stronger^an Louis Cyr 
 An' beat all de voyageurs leevin' here, 
 
 Leetle Bateese! 
 
 Jus' feel de muscle along his back, 
 Won't geev heem much bodder for carry pack 
 On de long portage, any size canoe, 
 Dere's not many t'ing dat boy wont do. 
 For he's got double joint on hees body too, 
 
 Leetle Bateese ! 
 
 But leetle Bateese ! please don't forget 
 We rader you stayin' de small boy yet, 
 So chase de chicken an' mak' dem scare, 
 An' do w'at you lak wit' your old gran'pere. 
 For w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere — 
 
 Leetle Bateese !
 
 Johnnie Corteau 87 
 
 JOHNNIE CORTEAU 
 
 Johnnie Corteau of de mountain, 
 Johnnie Corteau of de hill, 
 Dat was de boy can shoot the gun, 
 Dat was de boy can jomp an' run, 
 An' it's not very offen you ketch heem still, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau ! 
 
 Ax dem along de reever. 
 
 Ax dem along de shore, 
 
 Who was the mos' bes' fightin'-man 
 
 From Managance to Shaw-in-i-gan ? 
 
 De place w'ere de great beeg rapide roar, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau ! 
 
 Sam't'ing on ev'ry shaintee 
 
 Up on de Mekinac, 
 
 Who was de man can walk de log 
 
 W'en w'ole of de river she's black wit' fog 
 
 An' carry de beeges' load on hees back? 
 
 Johnnie Corteau. 
 
 On de rapid you want to see heem 
 If de raf she's swingin' roun', 
 An' he's yellin', " Hooraw, Bateese, good man! " 
 W'y de oar come double on hees han' 
 W'en he's makin' dat raf go flyin' down, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau, 
 
 An' Tete de Bouli chief can tole you 
 
 De feller w'at save hees life 
 
 W'en big moose ketch heem up a tree 
 
 Who's shootin' dat moose on de head, sapree! 
 
 An' den run off wit' hees Injun wife? 
 
 Johnnie Corteau. 
 
 An' he only have pike pole wit' heem 
 On Lac a la Tortue
 
 88 Johnnie Corteau 
 
 Wen he meet de bear comin' down de hill, 
 But de bear very soon is get hees fill ! 
 An' he sole dat skin for ten dollar too, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau. 
 
 Oh, he never was scare for not'ing 
 Lak de old coureurs de bois, 
 But w'en he's getting hees winter pay 
 De bes' t'ing sure is kip out de way 
 For he's goin' right off on de Hip Horraw ! 
 
 Johnnie Corteau. 
 
 Den puUin' hees sash aroun' heem 
 
 He dance on hees botte sauvage 
 
 An' shout " all aboar' if you want to fight ! ' 
 
 Wall you never can see de finer sight 
 
 W'en he go lak dat on de w'ole village 1 
 
 Johnnie Corteau ! 
 
 But Johnnie Corteau get marry 
 On Philomene Beaurepaire, 
 She's nice leetle girl was run de school 
 On w'at you call parish of Sainte Ursule 
 An' he see her off on de pique-nique dere, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau. 
 
 Den somet'ing come over Johnnie 
 W'en he marry on Philomene, 
 For he stay in de farm de w'ole year roun', 
 He chop de wood an' he plough de groun'. 
 An' he's quieter feller was never seen, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau. 
 
 An' ev'ry wan feel astonish 
 From La Tuque to Shaw-in-i-gan 
 W'en dey hear de news was goin' around', 
 Along on de reever up an' down, 
 How wan leetle woman boss dat beeg man, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau. 
 
 He never come out on de evening 
 No matter de hard we try,
 
 The Cure of Calumette 89 
 
 An' he stay on de kitchen an' sing hees song, 
 
 " A la clair fontaine, 
 
 M'en allant promener, 
 
 J'ai trouve I'eau si belle 
 
 Que je m'y suis baigner! 
 
 Lui y'a longtemps que je t'aime 
 
 Jamais je ne t'oublierai," 
 Rockin' de cradle de w'ole night long 
 Till baby's asleep on de sweet bimeby, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau. 
 
 An' de house, wall ! I wish you see it, 
 
 De place she's so nice an' clean, 
 
 Mus' wipe your foot on de outside door, 
 
 You're dead man sure if you spit on de floor, 
 
 An' he never say not'ing on Philomene, 
 
 Johnnie Corteau I 
 
 An' Philomene watch de monee 
 
 An' put it all safe away 
 
 On very good place; I dunno w'ere, 
 
 But anyhow nobody see it dere, 
 
 So she's buyin' new farm de noder day, 
 
 Madame Corteau. 
 
 THE CURE OF CALUMETTE 
 
 Dere's no voyageur on de reever never run hees canoe 
 
 d'ecorce 
 T'roo de roar and de rush of de rapide, w'ere it jump lak a 
 
 beeg w'ite horse, 
 Dere's no hunter man on the prairie, never wear w'at you call 
 
 raquette 
 Can beat leetle Fader O'Hara de Cure of Calumette. 
 
 Hees fader is full-blooded Irish, and hees moder is pure 
 
 Canayenne, 
 Not offen dat stock go togedder, but she's fine combination, 
 
 ma frien';
 
 90 The Cure of Calumette 
 
 For de Irish he's full of de devil^ an' de French dey got savoir 
 
 faire, 
 Dat's male' it de very good balance an' talc' you mos' 
 
 ev'ryw'ere. 
 
 But dere's wan t'ing de Cure won't stan' it; male' fun on de 
 
 Irlandais, 
 An' of course on de French we say not'ing, cos' de parish she's 
 
 all Canayen, 
 Den you see on account of de moder, he can't spile hese'f very 
 
 moche, 
 So de ole joke she's all out of fashion, an' wan of dem t'ing 
 
 we don't touch. 
 
 Wall ! wan of dat kin' is de Cure, but w'en he be comin' our 
 
 place 
 De peop on de parish all w'isper, " How young he was look on 
 
 hees face, 
 Too bad of de wedder she keel heem de firse tam he got 
 
 leetle wet, 
 An' de Bishop might sen' beeger Cure, for its purty tough 
 
 place Calumette! " 
 
 Ha ! ha ! how I wish I was dere, w'en he go on de mission call. 
 On de shaintee camp way up de reever, drivin' his own cariole, 
 An' he meet blaggar' feller been drikin' jus' enough mak heem 
 
 act lak' fou, 
 Joe Vadeboncoeur, dey was call heem, an' he's purty beeg 
 
 feller too ! 
 
 Mebbe Joe he don't know it's de Cure, so he's hoUerin' " Get 
 
 out of de way. 
 If you don't geev me whole of de roadside, sapree ! you go ofif 
 
 on de sleigh." 
 But de Cure he never say not'ing, jus' poule on de line leetle 
 
 bit. 
 An' w'en Joe try for kip heem hees promise, hees nose it get 
 
 badly hit. 
 
 Maudit ! he was strong, leetle Cure, an' he go for Joseph en 
 
 masse. 
 An w'en he is mak' it de finish, poor Joe isn't feel it firse 
 
 classe,
 
 The Cure of Calumette 91 
 
 So nex' tam de Cure he's going for visit de shaintee encore 
 Of course he was mak' beeges' mission never see on dat 
 place before. 
 
 An' he know more, I'm sure, dan de lawyer, and dere's many 
 
 poor habitant 
 Is glad for see Fader O'Hara, an' ax w'at he t'ink of de law 
 Wen dey get leetle troub' wit' each oder, an' don't know 
 
 de bes' t'ing to do, 
 Dat's makin' dems ave plaintee monee, and kip de good 
 
 neighbour too. 
 
 But w'en we fin' out how he paddle, till canoe she was nearly 
 
 fly' 
 
 An' travel racquette on de winter, w'en snow drif is pilin' 
 
 up high, 
 For visit some poor man or woman dat's waitin' de message 
 
 of peace, 
 An' get dem prepare for de journey, we're proud on de leetle 
 
 pries'. 
 
 ! many dark night w'en de chil'ren is put away safe on de 
 
 bed. 
 An' mese'f an' ma femme mebbe sittin' and watchin' de small 
 
 curly head, 
 We hear somet'ing else dan de roar of de tonder, de win', an' 
 
 de rain; 
 So we're bote passin' out on de doorway, an' lissen an' hssen 
 
 again. 
 
 An' its lonesome for see de beeg cloud sweepin' across de sky. 
 An' lonesome for hear de win' cryin' lak somebody goin' to 
 
 die, 
 But de soun' away down de valley, creepin' aroun' de hill 
 All de tam gettin' closer, closer, dat's de soun' mak' de heart 
 
 Stan' still. 
 
 It's de bell ^ of de leetle Cure, de music of deat' we hear. 
 Along on de black road ringin', an' soon it was comin' near. 
 
 ' The Cure of a French Canadian parish when summoned to a death- 
 bed always carries a bell in his buggy or sleigh. It clears a passage 
 for him and also calls to prayer those within reach of its sound.
 
 92 The Cure of Calumette 
 
 Wan minute de face of de Cure we see by de lantern light, 
 An' he's gone from us, jus' lak a shadder, into de stormy 
 night. 
 
 An' de buggy rush down de hillside an' over de bridge below, 
 Were creek run so high on de spring-tam, w'en mountain 
 
 t'row off de snow. 
 An' so long as we hear heem goin, we Icneel on de floor an' 
 
 pray, 
 Dat God will look after de Cur6, an' de poor soul dat's 
 
 passin' away. 
 
 I dunno if he need our prayer, but we geev it heem jus' de 
 
 sam', 
 For w'en a man's doin' hees duty lak de Cure do all de tam 
 Never min' all de t'ing may happen, no matter he's riche or 
 
 poor, 
 Le Bon Dieu was up on de heaven, will look out for dat man 
 
 I'm sure. 
 
 I'm only poor habitant farmer, an' mebbe I know not'ing at 
 
 all, 
 But dere's wan t'ing I'm always wishin', an' dat's w'en I get 
 
 de call 
 For travel de far away journey, ev'ry wan on de worl' mus' 
 
 He'll be wit" me de leetle Cure 'fore I'm leffin' dis place 
 below. 
 
 For I know I'll be feel more easv, if he's sittin' dere by de 
 
 bed 
 An' he'll geev me de good-bye message, an' place hees han' 
 
 on my head. 
 Den I'll hoi' if he'll only let me, dat han' till he las', las' 
 
 breat' 
 An' bless leetle Fader O'Hara, de Cure of Calumette.
 
 Le Docteur Fiset 93 
 
 LE DOCTEUR FISET 
 
 Oh Docteur Fiset of Saint Anicet, 
 
 Sapre tonnerre ! he was leev long tarn ! 
 I'm sure he's got ninety year or so 
 Beat all on de parish 'cept Pierre Corteau, 
 An' day after day he work all de sam 1 
 
 Dat house on the hill, you can see it still, 
 She's sam' place he buil' de firs' tam' he came; 
 
 Behin' it dere's one leetle small jardin 
 
 Got plaintee de bes' tabac Canayen 
 Wit' fameuse apple an' beeg blue plum. 
 
 An' dey're all right dere for de small boy's scare 
 
 No matter de apple look nice and red, 
 For de small boy know if he's stealin' some 
 Den Docteur Fiset on dark night he come, 
 An' cut the leetle feller right off hees head. 
 
 But w'en dey was rap, an' tak' off de cap, 
 M'sieu le Docteur he will say " Entrez," 
 Den all de boy pass on jardin behin' 
 Were dey eat mos' ev'ryt'ing good dey fin', 
 Till dey can't go on school nearly two t'ree day. 
 
 But Docteur Fiset, not moche fun he get, 
 
 Drivin' all over de whole contree. 
 If de road she's bad, if de road she's good, 
 W'en ev'ryt'ing's drown on de spring-tam flood, 
 
 An' workin' for not'ing half tam' mebbe! 
 
 Let her rain or snow, all he want to know 
 
 Is jus' if anywan's feeHng sick. 
 For Docteur Fiset's de ole fashion kin', 
 Doin' good was de only 'ting on hees min', 
 
 So he got no use for de politique. 
 
 An' he's careful too, 'cos firs' t'ing he do. 
 For fear dere was danger some fever case,
 
 94 Le Doctcur Fiset 
 
 Is tak' w'en he's come leetle w'isky chaud, 
 Den noder wan too jus' before he go, 
 He's so scare carry fever aroun' de place ! 
 
 On nice summer day w'en we're makin' hay 
 Dere's not'ing more pleasant for us I'm sure 
 
 Dan see de ole man come joggin' along, 
 
 Always singin' some leetle song, 
 An' hear heem say, " Tiens, mes amis, bonjour! " 
 
 An' w'en de cole rain was commence again 
 
 An' we're sittin' at home on some warm comerre, 
 If we hear the buggy an' see de light 
 Tearing along t'roo the black, black night, 
 We know right off dat's de ole docteur ! 
 
 An' he's smart horse sure, w'at he call " Faubourg," 
 Ev'ry place on de parish he know dem all. 
 
 An' you ought to see the nice way he go 
 
 For fear he's upsettin' upon de snow, 
 W'en ole man's asleep on de cariole. 
 
 I 'member when poor Hormisdas Couture 
 Get sick on hees place twenty mile away 
 An' hees boy Ovide he was come " Raquette,'' 
 W'at you call " Snowshoe," for Docteur Fiset, 
 An' docteur he start wit' hees horse and sleigh. 
 
 All de night before de beeg storm she roar, 
 An' mos' of de day it's de sam' also, 
 
 De drif was filin' up ten feet high 
 
 You can't see not'ing dis side de sky, 
 Not'ing but wan avelanche of snow, 
 
 I'm hearing de bell w'en I go on de well 
 
 For water de cattle on barn close by. 
 But I only catch sight of hees cheval blanc 
 An' hees coonskin coat wit' de capuchon 
 An' de storm tak' heem oflf jus' de sam' he fly. 
 
 Mus' be le Bon Dieu dat is help him t'roo, 
 Ole Docteur Fiset an' hees horse " Faubourg,"
 
 De Nice Leetle Canadienne 95 
 
 T'was somet'ing for splain me^ wall I don't care, 
 But somehow or 'noder he's gettin' dere, 
 An' save de life Hormisdas Couture. 
 
 But it's sam' alway, lak' dat ev'ry day, 
 He never was spare hese'f pour nous autres, 
 
 He don't mak' moche monee, Docteur Fiset, 
 
 An' often de only 'ting he get 
 
 Is de prayer of poor man, an' wan bag of oat. 
 
 Wall ! Docteur Fiset of Anicet 
 
 He's not dead yet ! An' Fm purty sure, 
 If you're passin' dat place about ten year more, 
 You will see heem go roun' lak' he go before 
 Wit' de ole cariole an' hees horse " Faubourg! " 
 
 DE NICE LEETLE CANADIENNE 
 
 You can pass on de worl' w'ever you lak; 
 
 Tak' de steamboat for go Angleterre! 
 Tak' car on de State, an' den you come back; 
 
 An' go all de place, I don't care — 
 Ma frien', dat's a fack, I know you will say, 
 
 W'en you come on dis contree again, 
 Dere's no girl can touch, w'at we see every day, 
 De nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 Don't matter how poor dat girl she may be, 
 
 Her dress is so neat an' so clean, 
 Mos' ev'ry wan t'ink it was mak' on Paree, 
 
 An' she wear it, wall ! jus' lak de queen. 
 Den come for fin' out she is mak' it herse'f, 
 
 For she ain't got moche monee for spen', 
 But all de sam' tam, she was never get lef, 
 Dat nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 W'en " un vrai Canayen " is mak' it mariee. 
 
 You t'ink he go leev on beeg fiat, 
 An' bodder hese'f all de tam night and day 
 
 Wit' housemaid, and cook, an' all dat ?
 
 96 On the Trail 
 
 Not moche, ma dear frien', he tak' de maison, 
 
 Cos' only nine dollar or ten, 
 Were he leev lak' blood rooster, an' save de I'argent, 
 Wit' hees nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 I marry ma femme w'en I jus' twenty year, 
 
 An' now we got fine familee, 
 Dat skip roun' de place lak' leetle small deer, 
 
 No smarter crowd you never see — 
 An' I t'ink as I watch dem all chasin' about, 
 
 Four boy an' six girl, she mak' ten, 
 Dat's help mebbe kip it, de stock from run out 
 Of de nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 she's quick, an' she's smart, an' got plaintee heart, 
 
 If you know correc' way go about. 
 An' if you don't know, she soon tole you so 
 
 Den tak' de firs' chance an' get out; 
 But if she love you, I spik it for true, 
 She will mak' it more beautiful den. 
 An' sun on de sky can't shine lak' de eye 
 Of dat nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 William Henry Drummond. 
 
 ON THE TRAIL 
 
 Oh, there's nothing like the prairie 
 When the wind is in your face, 
 
 And a thunderstorm is brewing, 
 And night comes down apace — 
 
 'Tis then you feel the wonder 
 And immensity of space ! 
 
 Far in the gathering darkness 
 
 Against the dying day 
 The ghostly hills are lying. 
 
 The hills that stand for aye — 
 How in the dusk they glimmer 
 
 And palpitate away 1
 
 On the Trail 97 
 
 Behind them still there lingers 
 
 A hint of sunset gold; 
 The trail before you stretches, 
 
 A long black ribbon unrolled — 
 Long and black and narrow, 
 
 Where the buffalo trod of old. 
 
 Though motionless forever, 
 
 The prairies seem to keep 
 The rolling swell and billow 
 
 Of some undulating deep, 
 As to the edge of heaven 
 
 And still beyond they sweep. 
 
 Between your knees the bronco 
 
 Goes hotly o'er the plain. 
 With rhythmic swing and measure 
 
 You feel him give and strain. 
 And on your cheek come stinging 
 
 The first wild drops of rain. 
 
 How vast the wild and void ! 
 
 No living thing in sight, 
 As to the lonely prairie 
 
 Comes down the lonely night. 
 But in your heart what freedom — 
 
 What sense of buoyant flight ! 
 
 Once more the pulses quicken 
 
 With life's exultant pride. 
 With hope and high ambition. 
 
 As on and on you ride. 
 Till all the old desires 
 
 Come galloping beside 1 
 
 Oh, there's nothing like the prairie 
 
 When the wind is in your face, 
 And the boom of distant thunder 
 
 Comes rolling up apace — 
 'Tis then you feel the wonder 
 
 And immensity of space !
 
 98 On the Creek 
 
 FOREST TRAGEDY 
 
 Afloat upon the tide one summer night, 
 Dreamily watching how the moonbeams bright 
 Made Httle broken rings of fancy Hght, 
 
 And vaguely lost in that half-conscious mood 
 That steals upon the sense in solitude, 
 I drifted near a shadowy island wood 
 
 Where all was silent, scarce a leaf was stirred 
 So still the air — when suddenly I heard 
 The piercing, anguished cry as of a bird 
 
 In such distress it made the echoes ring 
 And set the startled silence quivering — 
 The wild appeal of some sweet feathered thing 
 
 In its extremity. And then a sound, 
 
 Half muffled, faint, and all again was drowned 
 
 In silence inarticulate, profound. 
 
 I went my way, but through that helpless cry, 
 Unanswered and unheeded from on high, 
 Rang Fate to me with pitiless reply, 
 
 And in my restless heart the old deep strain — 
 The bitter doubt and wild rebellious pain 
 I thought were laid— came surging up again. 
 
 Helen Coleman. 
 
 ON THE CREEK 
 
 Dear Heart, the noisy strife 
 And bitter carpings cease; 
 
 Here is the lap of life. 
 Here are the lips of peace.
 
 On the Creek 99 
 
 Afar from the stir of streets, 
 
 The city's dust and din, 
 What heahng silence meets 
 
 And greets us ghding in! 
 
 Our Hght birch silent floats; 
 
 Soundless the paddle dips; 
 Yon sunbeam thick with motes 
 
 A-thro' the leafage slips. 
 
 To light the iris wings 
 
 Of dragon-flies alit 
 On lily leaves, and things 
 
 Of gauze that float and flit. 
 
 Above the water's brink 
 
 Hush'd winds make summer riot; 
 Our thirsty spirits drink 
 
 Deep, deep, this summer quiet. 
 
 We slip the world's gray husk, 
 Emerge, and spread new plumes 
 
 In sunbeam-fretted dusk. 
 Thro' populous golden glooms. 
 
 Like thistledown we slide. 
 
 Two disembodied dreams 
 With spirits, alert, wide-eyed, 
 
 Explore the perfume-streams. 
 
 For scents of various grass 
 
 Stream down the veering breeze; 
 
 Warm puffs of honey pass 
 From flowering linden trees; 
 
 And fragrant gusts of gum 
 
 From clammy balm-tree buds, 
 With fern-brake odours, come 
 
 From intricate solitudes. 
 
 The elm-trees are astir 
 
 With flirt of idle wings; 
 Hark to the grackle's chirr 
 
 Whene'er the elm-bough swings.
 
 loo The Forest Fire 
 
 From off yon ash-limb sere, 
 
 Out thrust amid green branches, 
 
 Keen Hke an azure spear 
 A kingfisher down launches. 
 
 Far up the creek his calls 
 And lessening laugh retreat; 
 
 Again the silence falls, 
 And soft the green hours fleet. 
 
 They fleet with drowsy hum 
 Of insects on the wing — 
 
 We sigh — the end must come! 
 We taste our pleasure's sting. 
 
 No more then need we try 
 The rapture to regain; 
 
 We feel our day shp by, 
 And cling to it in vain. 
 
 But, Dear, keep thou in mind 
 These moments swift and sweet! 
 
 Their memory shalt thou find 
 Illumes the common street. 
 
 And thro' the dust and din, 
 Smiling thy heart shall hear 
 
 Quiet waters lapsing thin, 
 And locusts shrilling clear. 
 
 THE FOREST FIRE 
 
 The night was grim and still with dread. 
 No star shone down from heaven's dome; 
 
 The ancient forest closed around 
 The settler's lonely home. 
 
 There came a glare that lit the north ; 
 There came a sound that roused the night;
 
 The Forest Fire loi 
 
 But child and father slumbered on/ 
 Nor felt the growing light. 
 
 There came a noise of flying feet, 
 
 With many a strange and dreadful cry; 
 
 And sharp flames crept and leapt along 
 The red verge of the sky. 
 
 There came a deep and gathering roar, 
 
 The father raised his anxious head ; 
 He saw the light like a dawn of blood 
 
 That streamed across his bed. 
 
 It lit the old clock on the wall, 
 
 It lit the room with splendour wild, 
 It lit the fair and tumbled hair 
 
 Of the still sleeping child* 
 
 And zig-zag fence, and mde log bam, 
 And chip-strewn yard, and cabin gray, 
 
 Glowed crimson in the reddening glare 
 Of that untimely day. 
 
 The boy was hurried from his sleep; 
 
 The horse was hurried from his stall; 
 Up from the pasture clearing came 
 
 The cattle's frightened call. 
 
 The boy was snatched to the saddle bow. 
 
 Wildly, wildly, the father rode. 
 Behind them swooped the hordes of flame 
 
 And harried their abode. 
 
 The scorching heat was at their heels ; 
 
 The huge roar hounded them on their flight; 
 Red smoke and many a flying brand 
 
 Flew o'er them through the night. 
 
 And past them fled the wild-wood forms — 
 Far-striding moose, and leaping deer. 
 
 And bounding panther, and coursing wolf. 
 Terrible eyed with fear.
 
 102 The Rapid 
 
 And closer drew the fiery death ; 
 
 Madly, madly, the father rode; 
 The horse began to heave and fall 
 
 Beneath the double load. 
 
 The father's mouth was white and stern, 
 But his eyes grew tender with long farewell. 
 
 He said: " Hold fast to your seat, sweetheart, 
 And ride old Jerry well! " 
 
 " I must go back. Ride on to the river, 
 Over the ford and the long marsh ride, 
 
 Straight on to the town, and I'll meet you, sweetheart, 
 Somewhere on the other side." 
 
 He slipped from the saddle, the boy rode on. 
 His hand clung fast in the horse's mane ; 
 
 His hair blew over the horse's neck; 
 His small throat sobbed with pain, 
 
 " Father! Father! " he cried aloud, 
 The howl of the fire-wind answered him 
 
 With the hiss of roaring flames, and crack 
 Of shattering limb on hmb. 
 
 But still the good horse galloped on. 
 With sinew braced and strength renewed. 
 
 The boy came safe to the river ford. 
 And out of the deadly wood. 
 
 And now with his kinsfolk, fenced from fear. 
 At play in the heart of the city's hum. 
 
 He stops in liis play to wonder why 
 His father does not come ! 
 
 C, G. D. Roberts. 
 
 THE RAPID 
 
 All peacefailiy gliding. 
 
 The waters dividing, 
 
 The indolent bateau moved slowly along, 
 
 The rowers light hearted.
 
 In the Shadows 103 
 
 From sorrow long parted^ 
 
 Beguiled the dull moments with laughter and song; 
 
 " Hurrah for the Rapid ! that merrily, merrily, 
 
 Gambols and leaps on its tortuous way; 
 
 Soon we will enter it, cheerily, cheerily, 
 
 Pleased with its freshness and wet with its spray." 
 
 More swiftly careering, 
 
 The wild rapid nearing. 
 
 They dash down the stream like a terrified steed; 
 
 The surges delight them. 
 
 No terrors af right them. 
 
 Their voices keep pace with the quickening speed ; 
 
 " Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily. 
 
 Shivers its waves against us in play; 
 
 Now we have entered it, cheerily, cheerily. 
 
 Our spirits are light as its feathery spray." 
 
 Fast downward they're dashing. 
 
 Each fearless eye flashing, 
 
 Though danger awaits them on every side; 
 
 Yon rock — see it frowning ! 
 
 They strike — they are drowning ! 
 
 But downward they speed with the merciless tide; 
 
 No voice cheers the rapid, that angrily, angrily. 
 
 Shivers their bark in its maddening play; 
 
 Gaily they entered it — heedlessly, recklessly, 
 
 Mingling their lives with its treacherous spray ! 
 
 Charles Sangster. 
 
 IN THE SHADOWS 
 
 I AM sailing to the leeward, 
 Where the current runs to seaward 
 
 Soft and slow. 
 Where the sleeping river grasses 
 Brush my paddle, as it passes 
 
 To and fro.
 
 I04 In the Shadows 
 
 On the shore the heat is shaking, 
 All the golden sands awaking 
 
 In the cove; 
 And the quaint sandpiper winging 
 O'er the shallows, ceases singing 
 
 When I move. 
 
 On the water's idle pillow 
 Sleeps the overhanging willow, 
 
 Green and cool; 
 Where the rushes lift their burnished 
 Oval heads from out the tarnished 
 
 Emerald pool. 
 
 Where the very water slumbers, 
 Water lilies grow in numbers, 
 
 Pure and pale; 
 All the morning they have rested, 
 Amber crowned and pearly crested — 
 
 Fair and frail. 
 
 Here impossible romances, 
 Undefinable sweet fancies. 
 
 Cluster round; 
 But they do not mar the sweetness 
 Of this still September fleetness 
 
 With a sound. 
 
 I can scarce discern the meeting 
 Of the shore and stream retreating. 
 
 So remote; 
 For the laggard river, dozing, 
 Only wakes from its reposing 
 
 Where I float. 
 
 Where the river mists are rising, 
 All the foliage baptising 
 
 With their spray; 
 Then the sun gleams far and faintly. 
 With a shadow soft and saintly 
 
 In its ray.
 
 The Beech-Nut Gatherer 105 
 
 And the perfume of some burning 
 Far-off brushwood, ever turning 
 
 To exhale; 
 All its smoky fragrance dying, 
 In the arms of evening lying, 
 
 Where I sail. 
 
 My canoe is growing lazy. 
 In the atmosphere so hazy. 
 
 While I dream ; 
 Half in slumber I am guiding 
 Eastward, indistinctly gliding 
 
 Down the stream. 
 
 E. Pauline Johnson. 
 
 THE BEECH-NUT GATHERER 
 
 All over the earth like a mantle, 
 
 Golden, and green, and grey. 
 Crimson, and scarlet, and yellow. 
 
 The autumn foliage lay; 
 The sun of the Indian summer 
 
 Laughed at the bare old trees. 
 As they shook their leafless branches 
 
 In the soft October breeze. 
 
 Gorgeous was every hill-side, 
 
 And gorgeous every nook. 
 And the dry old log was gorgeous, 
 
 Spanning the little brook; 
 Its holiday robes the forest 
 
 Had suddenly cast to earth. 
 And, as yet, seemed scarce to miss them, 
 
 In its plenitude of mirth. 
 
 I walked where the leaves the softest, 
 The brightest and goldenest lay; 
 
 And I thought of a forest hillside, 
 And an Indian day,
 
 io6 The Beech-Nut Gatherer 
 
 Of an eager little child face 
 O'er the fallen leaves that bent, 
 
 As she gathered her cup of beech-nuts 
 With innocent content. 
 
 I thought of the small, brown fingers 
 
 Gleaning them one by one, 
 With the partridge drumming near her 
 
 In the forest bare and dun, 
 And the jet-black squirrel, winking 
 
 His saucy, jealous eye 
 At those tiny pilfering fingers, 
 
 From his sly nook on high. 
 
 Ah, barefooted little maiden ! 
 
 With thy bonnetless, sunburnt brow, 
 Thou gleanest no more on the hillside — 
 
 Where art thou gleaning now } 
 I knew by the lifted glances 
 
 Of thy dark, imperious eye, 
 That the tall trees bending o'er thee 
 
 Would not shelter thee by and by. 
 
 The cottage by the brookside 
 
 With its mossy roof is gone; 
 The cattle have left the uplands. 
 
 The young lambs left the lawn ; 
 Gone are thy blue-eyed sister. 
 
 And thy brother's laughing brow; 
 And the beech-nuts lie ungathered 
 
 On the lonely hillside now. 
 
 What have the returning seasons 
 
 Brought to thy heart since then, 
 In thy long and weary wanderings 
 
 In the paths of busy men ? 
 Has the angel of grief or gladness 
 
 Set his seal upon thy brow ? 
 Maiden, joyous or tearful, 
 
 Where art thou gleaning now? 
 
 Mrs. Yule.
 
 The Canadian Herd-Boy 107 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT 
 
 The air is still — the night is dark — 
 No ripple breaks the dusky tide, 
 From isle to isle the fisher's bark, 
 Like fairy meteor, seems to glide — 
 Now lost in shade — now flashing bright 
 On sleeping wave and forest tree, 
 We hail with joy the ruddy light, 
 Which far into the darksome night 
 Shines redly, cheerily. 
 
 With spear high poised and steady hand, 
 The centre of that fiery ray, 
 Behold the skilful fisher stand. 
 Prepared to strike the finny prey — 
 " Now, now ! " the shaft has sped below — 
 Transfixed the shining prize we see, 
 On swiftly glides the birch canoe — 
 The woods send back the long halloo 
 In echoes loud and cheerily ! 
 
 Around yon bluff whose pine-crest hides 
 The noisy rapids from our sight. 
 Another bark — another glides — 
 Red spirits of the murky night. 
 The bosom of the silent stream 
 With mimic stars is dotted free, 
 The tall woods lighten in the beam, 
 Through darkness shining cheerily. 
 
 Mrs. Moodie. 
 
 THE CANADIAN HERD-BOY 
 
 (A Song of the Backwoods) 
 
 Through the deep woods, at peep of day. 
 The careless herd-boy wends his way. 
 By piny ridge and forest stream, 
 To summon home his noisy team — 
 Cobos ! Cobos ! from distant dell 
 Sly echo wafts the cattle bell.
 
 io8 The Fishers 
 
 A blythe reply he whistles back, 
 And follows out the devious track, 
 O'er fallen tree and mossy stone, 
 A path to all save him unknown — 
 Cobos ! Cobos ! far down the dell. 
 There faintly falls the cattle bell. 
 
 See the dark swamp before him throws 
 A tangled maze of cedar boughs, 
 On all around deep silence broods, 
 In nature's boundless soHtudes — 
 Cobos 1 Cobos ! the breezes swell, 
 And nearer floats the cattle bell. 
 
 He sees them now — beneath yon trees 
 His motley herd recline at ease; 
 With lazy pace and sullen stare 
 They slowly leave their shady lair — 
 Cobos ! Cobos ! far up the dell, 
 Quick jingling comes the cattle bell. 
 
 Mrs. Moodie. 
 
 THE FISHERS 
 
 Where the fishers rocking, resting. 
 Or anon the billows breasting. 
 
 Feel the pathos of the ocean 
 
 Where they toss with constant motion, 
 Drifting on the sea; 
 
 All its subtle odours breathing, 
 When its surges foaming, seething. 
 Blending with the moving cloud-rifts. 
 Woo the soft winds and the star-drifts 
 O'er the mighty sea; 
 
 Whether going forth or homing, 
 In the midnight or the gloaming, 
 They are drawing in the gladness 
 Of the sunshine, or the sadness 
 
 Of the boundless sea.
 
 The Fishers 109 
 
 One they are with all surrounding, 
 
 With the angry surf, resounding, 
 From the far-off coast and shallows. 
 One with all that makes and hallows 
 Memories of the sea. 
 
 Lonely dwellers on the ocean, 
 Evermore your brave devotion 
 
 Lives in all your sons, abiding. 
 
 Leavening their souls, and guiding 
 O'er life's fitful sea. 
 
 All the ocean's moods and tenses. 
 Whispers, whimsies, subtle senses. 
 
 All its deafening boom and thunder, 
 
 All the terror gloom and wonder 
 Of the stormful sea; 
 
 All the restless moaning, shifting, 
 Mists and shadows, cloud-forms drifting. 
 
 Heaving waters, vast unbounded. 
 
 Deep, mysterious, unsounded. 
 
 Of the changeful sea, 
 
 Builded into soul and sinew 
 
 Of the fisher, draw and win you. 
 By the pleasure and the power, 
 Bom of changeful wind and shower 
 Of the wind-swept sea. 
 
 In our nation's many races. 
 May we never miss the traces 
 
 Of the sweep and width and wonder, 
 Of the calm and storm and thunder. 
 Of the open sea. 
 
 Dr. Albert D. Watson.
 
 I lo Midday in Midsummer 
 
 AT A TOBOGGAN MEET 
 
 Light, graceful clouds across the sky 
 
 Are scudding swift to-night, 
 But fleeter than yon gauze on high 
 Can flaunt before the moon's full eye 
 
 Our craft career their flight. 
 
 Bold privateers, they hurry o'er 
 
 A foamy stretch of sea, 
 With cargoes laden precious more 
 Than fabled store on ocean-floor; 
 
 Or wealth of Araby. 
 
 Out in the frosty atmosphere 
 
 From their gay decks are flung 
 The hearty laugh, the ringing cheer, 
 The mirthful notes full sweet and clear 
 
 That fall from Beauty's tongue. 
 
 Adown the long incline they glide. 
 
 And over fields below. 
 Trim vessels with the wind allied. 
 The playthings of our northern pride, 
 
 Toboggans o'er the snow. 
 
 William T. Allison. 
 
 MIDDAY IN MIDSUMMER 
 
 The sky's great curtains downward steal, 
 
 The earth's fair company 
 Of trees and streams and meadows feel 
 
 A sense of privacy. 
 
 Upon the vast expanse of heat 
 
 Light-footed breezes pace; 
 In waves of gold they tread the wheat. 
 
 They lift the sunflower's face.
 
 A Canadian Summer Evening i i i 
 
 The cruel sun is blotted out, 
 
 The west is black with rain, 
 The drooping leaves in mingled doubt 
 
 And hope look up again. 
 
 The weeds and grass on tiptoe stand, 
 
 A strange exuberant thrill 
 Prepares the dazed, uncertain land 
 
 For the wild tempest's will. 
 
 The wind grows big and breathes aloud 
 
 As it runs hurrying past; 
 At one sharp blow the thunder-cloud 
 
 Lets loose the furious blast. 
 
 The earth is beaten, drenched, and drowned, 
 
 The elements go mad; 
 Swift streams of joy flow o'er the ground, 
 
 And all the leaves are glad. 
 
 Then comes a momentary lull; 
 
 The darkest clouds are furled, 
 And, lo, new washed and beautiful 
 
 And breathless gleams the world ! 
 
 Ethel WYN Wether ald. 
 
 A CANADIAN SUMMER EVENING 
 
 The rose-tints have faded from out of the west. 
 
 From the mountain's high peak, from the river's broad breast. 
 
 And silently shadowing valley and rill 
 
 The twilight steals noiselessly over the hill. 
 
 Behold in the blue depths of ether afar, 
 
 Now softly emerging each glittering star; 
 
 While later the moon, placid, solemn, and bright, 
 
 Floods earth with her tremulous silvery light. 
 
 Hush ! list to the whip-poor-will's soft plaintive notes, 
 As up from the valley the lonely sound floats ; 
 Inhale the sweet breath of yon shadowy wood. 
 And the wild flowers blooming in hushed solitude.
 
 112 My Summer Fallow 
 
 Start not at the whispering, 'tis but the breeze, 
 Low restling 'mid maple and lonely pine trees, 
 Or willows and alders that fringe the dark tide, 
 Where canoes of the red men oft silently glide. 
 
 See, rising from out of that copse, dark and damp, 
 The fire-flies, each bearing a flickering lamp ! 
 Like meteors gleaming and streaming they pass 
 O'er hillside, and meadow, and dew-laden grass; 
 Contrasting with ripple on river and stream. 
 Alternately playing in shadow and beam, 
 Till fullness of beauty fills hearing and sight 
 Throughout the still hours of a calm summer night. 
 
 Mrs. Leprohon. 
 
 MY SUMMER FALLOW 
 
 For years my summer fallow lay 
 
 A wealthy waste of grass and hay — 
 
 A wilder place you scarce could match — 
 
 The maiden's famous berry-patch. 
 
 I've counted, when the skies were fair, 
 
 Twenty-and-six bonnets there. 
 
 And saw them all in terror break 
 
 Before a modest garter-snake ! 
 
 I ever felt a joy intense 
 
 To help each fair one o'er the fence, 
 
 And praise her ankles or her face. 
 
 And get her thanks with artless grace. 
 
 Many a ground-hog I have dug 
 
 From out his habitation snug; 
 
 And when high hung the noiseless moon 
 
 I've laid in wait to meet the coon. 
 
 One spot I noticed as the best: 
 
 'Twas always greener than the rest : 
 
 A deeper, richer, sweeter green 
 
 Than elsewhere on the field was seen. 
 
 On high the goose-grass waved her plumes; 
 
 The sweet white clover spread her blooms;
 
 My Summer Fallow 1 1 3 
 
 The red-top grew so thick and rank 
 That on its knees it swooned and sank ! 
 That spot had always furnished, free, 
 The village dames with boneset tea: 
 There 'neath the sheltering mandrake's lid, 
 The fledgling Bob Whites softly hid; 
 And none but I the secret knew 
 Of where the precious ginsing grew. 
 
 One autumn, when the woods were brown, 
 I ploughed the old-time fallow down. 
 And worked away with tireless feet. 
 Until 'twas seeded down with wheat. 
 
 Next summer — it was plain to view — 
 
 Thereon the harvest richer grew; 
 
 To keep its feet it did its best — 
 
 Then lodged — prone lay its golden crest; 
 
 A tangled moist luxuriant square — 
 
 The ground-hogs all foregathered there — 
 
 And — one famous, wise, and skilled 
 
 Will understand — it never " filled." 
 
 Ere winter winds began to blow 
 
 I took my spade and dug below, 
 
 And found some curious carven stones; 
 
 Some broken skulls and scattered bones; 
 
 A precious string of wampum beads ; 
 
 A little pot of roasted seeds : 
 
 Some needles made of polished bone ; 
 
 Some broken pipes — an axe of stone — 
 
 For I had found the quiet graves 
 
 Of long forgotten Indian braves ! 
 
 ! splendid Resurrection, here ! 
 Renewed with each returning year ! 
 To rise in grass and flowers and trees ; 
 To feed the wild deer and the bees ; 
 To fill with wealth their sheltering sod — 
 A yearly sacrifice to God ! 
 
 May I return to thee, Earth — 
 The mother dear that gave me birth — 
 
 H
 
 114 Canadian Woods in Early Autumn 
 
 And pay to thee, whene'er I go, 
 A little of the debt I owe. 
 Thus, resurrected every spring 
 I'll hear the merry blue birds sing — 
 Their voices every May-day morn 
 Will sweeter sound than Gabriel's horn ! 
 And oft, I hope, my grateful soul 
 Shall thro' my summer fallow stroll ! 
 
 R. K. Kerningham. 
 
 CANADIAN WOODS IN EARLY AUTUMN 
 
 I HAVE passed the day 'mid the forest gay, 
 
 In its gorgeous autumn dyes, 
 Its tints as bright and as fair to the sight 
 
 As the hues of our sunset skies; 
 And the sun's glad rays, veiled by golden haze. 
 
 Streamed down 'neath its arches grand. 
 And with magic power made scene and hour 
 
 Like a dream of Fairie Land. 
 
 The emerald sheen of the maple green 
 
 Is turned to deep, rich red, 
 As the boughs entwine with the crimson vine 
 
 That is climbing overhead ; 
 While, like golden sheaves, the saffron leaves 
 
 Of the sycamore strew the ground, 
 'Neath birches old, clad in shimmering gold. 
 
 Or the ash with red berries crowned. 
 
 Stately and tall, o'er its sisters all. 
 
 Stands the poplar, proud and lone, 
 Every silver leaf in restless grief 
 
 Laments for the summer flown ; 
 While each oak and elm of the sylvan realm. 
 
 In brilliant garb arrayed. 
 With each other vie, 'neath the autumn sky, 
 
 In beauty of form and shade. 
 
 When wearied the gaze with the vivid blaze 
 Of rich tints before it spread —
 
 Harvest Time 1 1 5 
 
 Gay orange and gold, with shades untold 
 
 Of glowing carmine and red — 
 It can turn 'mid the scene to the sombre green 
 
 Of the fir, the hemlock, the pine. 
 Ever keeping their hue, and their freshness too, 
 
 Mid the season's swift decline. 
 
 Though the bird's sweet song, that the summer long 
 
 Hath flowed so sweet and clear. 
 Through the cool, dim shades of the forest glades. 
 
 No longer charms the ear, 
 A witching spell, that will please as well 
 
 As his glad notes, may be found 
 In the solemn hush, or the leaves' soft rush, 
 
 As they thickly strew the ground. 
 
 For, though they tell of summer's farewell, 
 
 Of their own decay and doom. 
 Of the wild storm-cloud and snow's cold shroud. 
 
 And the days of winter's gloom. 
 The heart must yield to the power they wield — 
 
 Alike tender, soothing, gay — 
 The beauties that gleam and reign supreme 
 
 In our woods, this autumn day. 
 
 Mrs. Leprohon. 
 
 HARVEST TIME 
 
 Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain, 
 Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain, 
 
 Wearied of pleasuring weeks away, 
 Summer is lying asleep to-day — 
 
 Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briars, 
 And the smoke of the far-off prairie fires. 
 
 Yellow her brow as the golden rod, 
 And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod;
 
 1 1 6 Song of the Golden Sea 
 
 Purple her eyes as the mists that dream 
 
 At the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream; 
 
 But over their depths the lashes sweep, 
 For summer is lying to-day asleep. 
 
 The north wind kisses her rosy mouth, 
 His rival frowns in the far-oflf south, 
 
 And comes caressing her sun-burnt cheek, 
 And summer awakes for one short week — 
 
 Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain 
 Then sleeps and dreams for a year again. 
 
 E. Pauline Johnson. 
 
 SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA 
 
 Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat. 
 
 Sing to the breezes passing by. 
 Sing your jubilant song and sweet, 
 
 Sing to the earth, the air, the sky ! 
 
 Earth that held thee and skies that kissed 
 Morning and noon and night for long, 
 
 Sun and rain and dew and mist. 
 All that has made you glad and strong. 
 
 The harvest fields of the far, far west 
 Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold ! 
 
 Every ripple upon its breast 
 
 Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold ! 
 
 Far as the eye can reach it goes, 
 Farther yet, till there seems no end, 
 
 Under a sky where blue and rose 
 With the gold and turquoise softly blend. 
 
 Here, where sweep the prairies lone. 
 Broad and beautiful in God's eyes. 
 
 Here in this young land, all our own, 
 The garner-house of the old world lies. 
 
 Jean Blewett.
 
 An August Wood Road 117 
 
 AN AUGUST WOOD ROAD 
 
 When the partridge coveys fly 
 In the birch- tops cool and high| 
 
 When the dry cicadas twang 
 When the purpling fir-cones bang; 
 
 When the bunch-berries emboss — 
 Scarlet beads — the roadside moss : 
 
 Brown with shadows, bright with sun, 
 All day long till day is done 
 
 Sleeps in murmuring solitude 
 
 The worn old road that threads the wood. 
 
 In its deep cup — grassy, cool — 
 Sleeps the httle roadside pool. 
 
 Sleeps the butterfly on the weed, 
 Sleeps the drifted thistle seedg 
 
 Like a great and blazing gem. 
 Basks the beetle on the stem. 
 
 Up and down the sliining rays 
 Dancing midges weave their maze, 
 
 High among the moveless boughs, 
 Drunk with day, the night hawks drowse. 
 
 Far up, unfathomably blue, 
 August's heaven vibrates through* 
 
 The old road leads to all things good ; 
 The year's at full, and time's at flood, 
 
 C. G. D. Roberts.
 
 1 1 8 Frost Song 
 
 THE SILENT SNOW 
 
 To-day the earth has not a word to speak. 
 
 The snow comes down as softly through the air 
 
 As pitying heaven to a martyr's prayer, 
 
 Or white grave roses to a blooming cheek. 
 
 The footsteps of the snow, as white and meek 
 
 As angel travellers, are everywhere — 
 
 On fence and briar and up the forest stair. 
 
 And on the wind's trail o'er the moorland bleak. 
 
 They tread the rugged road as tenderly 
 
 As April venturing her first caress; 
 
 They drown the old earth's furrowed griefs and scars 
 
 Within the white foam of a soundless sea. 
 
 And bring a deeper depth of quietness 
 
 To graves asleep beneath the silent stars. 
 
 Ethelwyn Wetherald. 
 
 FROST SONG 
 
 Here where the bee slept and the orchis lifted 
 Her honeying pipes of pearl, her velvet lip. 
 
 Only the swart leaves of the oak lie drifted 
 In sombre fellowship. 
 
 Here where the flame-weed set the lands alight 
 
 Lies the bleak upland, webbed and crowned with white. 
 
 Build high the logs, love, and in thine eyes 
 
 Let me believe the summer lingers late. 
 We shall not miss her passive pageantries 
 
 We are not desolate. 
 When on the sill, across the window bars. 
 Kind winter flings her flowers and her stars. 
 
 Majorie C. L. Pickthall.
 
 Tree Memories 119 
 
 TREE MEMORIES 
 
 The woodland stretched its arms to me, 
 
 And into its heart I went; 
 While by my side invisibly 
 
 Walked musing-eyed Content. 
 
 The woodland spake no word to me, 
 But, oh, its thoughts were sweet; 
 
 Against my spirit like a sea 
 I felt the thought-waves beat. 
 
 Before my vision, stained and dull, 
 The wood-shapes dropped their gold ; 
 
 The young child-trees were beautiful, 
 More beautiful the old. 
 
 Within their halls of memory 
 
 What heavenly scenes are drawn : 
 
 The stream, the wild bird's company. 
 The sky's cool face at dawn; 
 
 The golden lances of the sun. 
 
 The rain that feels its way. 
 The twilight steps that one by one, 
 
 Lead to the moon's white ray; 
 
 The multitude of light leaf- forms 
 
 Engraved on earth and air. 
 The black and gold of midnight storms, 
 
 The blue that violets wear : 
 
 The wind that brings from clover farms 
 
 A picture white and red. 
 Or later gathers in his arms 
 
 The woodland's fragile dead. 
 
 These throng the woodland memories; 
 Upon this perfumed track
 
 I 2 The Maple 
 
 The thoughts of all the silent trees 
 Go wandering back and back. 
 
 This is the charm that cometh last, 
 '^ Of all these sweets the sum: 
 The feelings of green summers past, 
 And fair green springs to come. 
 
 Ethel WYN Wether ald. 
 
 THE MAPLE 
 
 All hail to the broad-leaved Maple ! 
 
 With its fair and changeful dress — 
 A type of our youthful country 
 
 In its pride and loveliness; 
 Whether in spring or summer 
 
 Or in the dreary fall, 
 'Mid Nature's fairest children. 
 
 She's fairest of them all. 
 
 Down many slopes and valleys 
 
 Her graceful form is seen, 
 Her wide umbrageous branches 
 
 The sun-burnt reaper screen; 
 'Mid the dark brown firs and cedars 
 
 Her livelier colours shine, 
 Like the dawn of a brighter future 
 
 On the settler's hut of pine. 
 
 She crowns the pleasant hill-top. 
 
 Whispers on breezy downs. 
 And casts refreshing shadows 
 
 O'er the streets of our busy towns; 
 She gladdens the aching eyeball. 
 
 Shelters the weary head. 
 And scatters her crimson glories 
 
 O'er the graves of the silent dead. 
 
 When winter frosts are yielding 
 To the sun's returning sway. 
 
 And merry groups are speeding 
 To sugar woods away,
 
 Among the Pines 121 
 
 The sweet and welling pieces, 
 
 Which form their welcome spoil. 
 Tell of the teeming plenty 
 
 Which here waits honest toil. 
 
 When sweet-voiced spring soft breathing, 
 
 Breaks Nature's icy sleep, 
 And the forest boughs are swaying 
 
 Like the green waves of the deep; 
 In her fair and budding beauty, 
 
 A fitting emblem she 
 Of this our land of promise. 
 
 Of hope, of liberty. 
 
 And when her leaves, all crimson, 
 
 Drop silently and fall, 
 Like drops of life-blood welling 
 
 From a warrior brave and tall, 
 They tell how fast and freely 
 
 Would her children's blood be shed, 
 Ere the soil of our faith and freedom 
 
 Should echo a foeman's tread. 
 
 Then hail to the broad-leaved Maple ! 
 
 With her fair and changeful dress — 
 A type of our youthful country 
 
 In its pride and loveliness; 
 Whether in spring or summer 
 
 Or in the dreary fall, 
 'Mid Nature's forest children, 
 
 She's fairest of them all. 
 
 Rev. H. F. Darnell. 
 
 AMONG THE PINES 
 
 Like Druid priests, dark vestured, slim. 
 
 Burdened with mysteries. 
 They wake throughout their green aisles dim 
 
 Weird melodies.
 
 122 The Pines 
 
 Rhythmic within their swaying limbs 
 
 The prisoned music swells, 
 Far cadence of cathedral hymns 
 
 And calling bells. 
 
 The infinite loneliness of night, 
 
 Bereft of joy or pain, 
 And passion of long-lost delight 
 
 Ebb in the strain. 
 
 The wash of low monotonous waves 
 
 On shores unvisited. 
 The grasses whispering on graves 
 
 Where hearts have bled. 
 
 The travail of a world that lies 
 
 Below our consciousness. 
 These wandering and plaintive sighs 
 
 Faintly express. 
 
 The dreaming and unconscious things 
 
 Imprisoned in the clod, 
 Voice through these fitful murmurings 
 
 Their thought of God. 
 
 Helena Coleman. 
 
 THE PINES 
 
 HEARD ye the pines in their solitude sigh, 
 When the winds were awakened and night was nigh.^ 
 When the elms breathed out a sorrowful tale. 
 Which was wafted away on the wings of the gale ; 
 
 When the aspen leaf whispered a legend dread, 
 And the willows waved darkly over the dead ; 
 And the poplar shone with a silvery gleam. 
 And trembled like one in a troubled dream; 
 
 And the cypresses murmured of grief and woe, 
 
 And the linden waved solemnly to and fro. 
 
 And the sumach seemed wrapt in a golden mist, 
 
 And the soft maple blushed where the frost had kissed ;
 
 The Indian Pipe 123 
 
 And the spectral birch stood alone in the gloom. 
 Like an unquiet spirit uprist from the tomb; 
 And the cedar outstretched its lone arms to the earth, 
 To feed with sweet moisture the place of its birth ; 
 
 And the hemlock, uplifted above the crowd, 
 Drank deeply of mist at the brink of a cloud ; 
 And the balsams with curtains of shaggy green, 
 Like tents in the distance were dimly seen. 
 
 I heard the pines in their solitude crying, 
 
 When the winds were awakened, and the day was dying; 
 
 And fierce the storm grew, and darker its pall, 
 
 But the voice of the pines was louder than all, 
 
 Charles Mair. 
 
 THE INDIAN PIPE 
 
 Around the clustering beeches, hidden deep. 
 When scarce at noon the July sunbeams creep. 
 Where on the bough the humming bird's small nest 
 Seems, like a knot of lichen, light to rest, 
 From the dead leaves of last autumn ripe 
 Rise the white clusters of the Indian pipe. 
 
 Is it an earthly flower or ghostly shade, 
 From fields Tartarean to our forest strayed ? 
 Or wrought from stainless marble, carven fine 
 By cunning sculptor in a quaint design, 
 In mimic semblance of the pipe of peace 
 That warriors smoke when war and havoc cease ? 
 
 All waxen white in stem, and leaf, and flower 
 It stands — a vision strange in summer bower; 
 But whence the form its bending blossoms wear.? 
 Does the pale bloom a runic legend bear? 
 Then murmuring rose the breeeze of eventide. 
 And, whispering low, an ancient sorrow sighed ! 
 
 Here, long ago, amid this sylvan shade, 
 There grew in budding bloom an Indian maid,
 
 124 '^h^ May-Flower 
 
 Her father's only child — his joy and pride — 
 She seemed a lily by a cedar's side; 
 Careless she roamed, until one fatal day 
 A pale-face stranger stole her heart away, 
 
 Could a chief's daughter with such lover go ? 
 Leave sire and nation for her people's foe ? 
 Nay ! better death than baseness such as this ! 
 Yet youth and joy went with his parting kiss, 
 And, like another Iphigenia brave. 
 Swift-ebbing life for sire and race she gave ! 
 But one last boon she sought with parting life — 
 That with her death should end the vexing strife : 
 'Twixt white and red man war and feud should cease. 
 While o'er her grave they smoked the pipe of peace; 
 And there, ere maize and wilding rice were ripe. 
 Sprang the pale clusters of the Indian pipe ! 
 
 THE MAY-FLOWER 1 
 
 When the maple wears its tassels and the birch buds grow 
 
 apace. 
 And the willows gleam out golden in the sunset's tender 
 
 grace. 
 And the ferns amid the rushes first their curly heads uprear, 
 Then awakes our wilding blossom, first and fairest of the 
 
 year — 
 The May-flower — oh, the May-flower! — sweet of scent and 
 
 fair to see, 
 Tiny trailing pink arbutus — chosen flower of Acadie ! 
 
 Sheltered 'neath the sloping pear-boughs — see its tendrils 
 
 creeping low. 
 Gleam in freshly glistening verdure through the swiftly 
 
 melting snow. 
 Till the pink buds in the sunshine open wide their throats to 
 
 fling 
 From their censers, rarest incense on the balmy air of spring — 
 
 * The trailing arbutus, the special flower of Nova Scotia.
 
 The May-Flower 125 
 
 The May-flower — oh, the May-flower! — sweet of scent and 
 
 fair to see, 
 How we hail thee in the springtime — chosen flower of Acadie ! 
 
 There's the robin plaintive, fluting in the budding boughs 
 
 above, 
 And the cat-bird sweetly warbling for the pleasure of his 
 
 love; 
 Are they telling the old story, how a gentle Indian maid. 
 Vainly seeking her lost lover, through the forest tireless 
 
 strayed ? 
 The May-flower — oh, the May-flower! — sweet of scent and 
 
 fair to see. 
 All the woodland feels thy fragrance, chosen flower of Acadie ! 
 
 Do they tell how — mid her sorrow for the one she held so 
 
 dear — 
 Every sad and suffering creature still she sought to help and 
 
 cheer. 
 Till there sprang up in the pathway of her ministering feet. 
 The bright May-flower's tender blossom — full of fragrance 
 
 rare and sweet? 
 The May-flower — oh, the May-flower! — sweet of scent and 
 
 fair to see. 
 Filled with all the springtime's sweetness — chosen flower of 
 
 Acadie ! 
 
 Passing years bring many changes — joy and sorrow come 
 and go, 
 
 Yet unchanged the May-flower wakens at the melting of the 
 snow; 
 
 Though unseen, its fragrance, breathing through the bud- 
 ding woodland maze. 
 
 Brings sweet foretaste of the summer to the changeful April 
 days. 
 
 The May-flower — oh, the May-flower! sweet of scent and 
 fair to see. 
 
 With love's fragrant breath thou'rt laden, chosen flower of 
 Acadie ! 
 
 Years have glided into ages, and the centuries grown gray. 
 Still as fresh and sweet as ever does the May-flower greet the 
 May;
 
 126 Why Blossoms Fall 
 
 And the heaviest heart grows Hghter as it hails thy promise 
 
 true^ 
 Of the love that lives for ever, and shall make all old things 
 
 new! 
 The May-flower — oh, the May-flower! — sweet of scent and 
 
 fair to see, 
 Shedding spring's divinest fragrance through the woods of 
 
 Acadie ! 
 
 Agnes Maude Machar. 
 
 WHY BLOSSOMS FALL 
 
 Dear Mother Earth her children trees 
 
 Clads well in robes of white, 
 That they may rest in perfect peace 
 
 Through all the winter night. 
 
 When Spring, the morning, softly dawns, 
 
 She calls each sleeping one. 
 Who wakens, slowly sighs, and yawns, 
 
 Till day is well begun. 
 
 Soon April brings a shower bath. 
 And May fresh garments clean; 
 
 Bright trimmings gay each maiden hath, 
 The lads wear sober green. 
 
 The sister-winds their playmates are, 
 
 The gentle South and West, 
 And quickly come they from afar 
 
 To help them all get drest. 
 
 , Each garment new is soon unrolled. 
 And smoothed well in its place, 
 
 Till not a crease or crumpled fold 
 Can anybody trace. 
 
 And then they hum a tuneful song 
 
 And play at in-and-out. 
 Until their brothers come along, 
 
 And join them with a shout.
 
 The Indigo Bird i 27 
 
 The brothers, North and East are rough, 
 
 And play with such wild glee, 
 They tear the pretty trimming stuff 
 
 Off every maiden tree. 
 
 So this is why the blossoms fall 
 
 And leaves oft times look creased ; 
 The boisterous brothers do it all. 
 
 The merry North and East. 
 
 Alma Frances McCollum. 
 
 THE INDIGO BIRD 
 
 When I see, 
 
 High on the tip-top twig of a tree, 
 
 Something blue by the breezes stirred. 
 
 But so far up that the blue is blurred, 
 
 So far up no green leaf flies 
 
 'Twixt its blue and the blue of the skies, 
 
 Then I know, ere a note be heard. 
 
 That is naught but the Indigo bird. 
 
 Blue on the branch and blue in the sky. 
 And naught between but the breezes high, 
 And naught so blue by the breezes stirred 
 As the deep, deep blue of the Indigo bird. 
 
 When I hear 
 
 A song like a bird laugh, blithe and clear, 
 As though of some airy jest he had heard 
 The last and most delightful word; 
 A laugh as fresh in the August haze 
 As it was in the full-voiced April days ; 
 Then I know that my heart is stirred 
 By the laugh-like song of the Indigo bird. 
 
 Joy on the branch and joy in the sky. 
 And naught between but the breezes high ; 
 And naught so glad on the breezes heard 
 As the gay, gay note of the Indigo bird. 
 
 Ethelwyn Wetherald,
 
 I 28 Sand Pipers 
 
 SAND PIPERS 
 
 Morning on the misty highlands, 
 On the outer, shining islands ; 
 Gulls their grey way seaward winging 
 To the blinking zones of blue — 
 South winds in the sallows singing, 
 Where I wander far with you, 
 Little pipers, careless, free, 
 On the sandlands of the sea. 
 
 All day on the amber edges 
 Of the pools and silver ledges 
 Of the sedgelands in the sun 
 Restlessly the pipers run. 
 Weet, a-weet, a-weet, a-weet — 
 Sun, and wind, and sifting sand, 
 Joy of June on sea and land, 
 Weet, a-weet, a-weet, weet weet. 
 
 . . . • • 
 
 Evening on the fading highlands, 
 On the outer, amber islands; 
 Grey wings folded in the sedges. 
 In the glimmer of a star 
 Where the lamps of Algol are. 
 Shining on a world's white edges. 
 
   • • • • 
 
 Moonlight on the sombre forelands, 
 On the outer, silver shorelands; 
 Peaceful mists that pale and drift 
 Seaward like a phantom fleet, 
 Through a sapphire, shadowed rift — 
 Weet, a-weet, weet weet, weet weet — 
 Night, and stars, and empty hushes, 
 Darkness in the purple rushes, 
 Weet, weet weet, weet weet, weet weet. 
 
 Helen M. Merrill.
 
 The Night Bird 129 
 
 WHIP-POOR-WILL 
 
 There is a lonely spirit, 
 
 Which wanders through the wood, 
 And tells its mournful story, 
 
 In every solitude. 
 It comes abroad at eventide, 
 
 And hangs beside the rill, 
 And murmurs to the passer-by, 
 
 " Whip-poor-will." 
 
 Oh, 'tis a hapless spirit, 
 
 In likeness of a bird ! 
 A grief that cannot utter 
 
 Another woeful word. 
 A soul that seeks for sympathy, 
 
 A woe that won't be still ; 
 A wandering sorrow murmuring, 
 
 " Whip-poor-will." 
 
 A. McLachlan. 
 
 THE NIGHT BIRD 
 
 Down where the cedars are bending, 
 Down by the side of the river. 
 Where the dark waters are wending 
 Their way to the ocean for ever, 
 
 One night I heard 
 
 A lonely bird 
 Singing, Oh! so sadly singing, 
 
 There was such pain 
 
 In its wild strain 
 So plaintive and so ringing. 
 I paused to listen and methought 
 The sounds were into meaning wrought; 
 
 While, faint and low 
 As sobs of woe.
 
 130 The Night Bird 
 
 The lone bird kept repeating 
 
 The strange refrain 
 
 Of its wild strain, 
 Where crowded shadows meeting 
 
 Made that solitary grove 
 
 Like to a grave of love. 
 
 " Rolled, rolled in the greedy mould 
 That taketh and nothing giveth. 
 Where, where, in a dumb despair. 
 No hope of the future liveth; 
 Lies, lies, with o'er-shaded eyes, 
 A being of many the fairest. 
 While, while, like a desert isle. 
 My bosom the night wind barest. 
 Strong, strong, is the Giant Wrong, 
 And he mates with a demon cruel; 
 
 " Higher, higher, he buildeth a fire. 
 
 And human hearts are the fuel; 
 
 Bright, bright, in the morning light, 
 
 Beauty and love came flying. 
 
 Laid, laid, in deathly shade 
 
 Ere eve they were crushed and dying ! 
 
 Woe, woe, against all below 
 
 That liveth and loveth is written: 
 
 Life, life, is a bitter strife. 
 
 Where the best are the soonest smitten. ]| 
 
 " Here, here, on this hapless sphere. 
 All that are beautiful perish; 
 Hope, hope, hath no wider scope 
 Than faint recollections we cherish. 
 Earth, earth, had its hours of mirth. 
 But woe is an old, old story; 
 Fast, fast, in the gliding past, 
 Fleeth our dreams of glory! " 
 
 hush ! unhappy thing, I cried. 
 Though fate hath left thee naught beside 
 
 Hast thou not faith and duty ? 
 What matters the loss of a toy of clay —
 
 The Canadian Whitethroat 131 
 
 The perishing birth of a perishing day — 
 Though it were a thing of beauty ! 
 
 Can death destroy 
 
 The lasting joy 
 That springs from a hope immortal, 
 
 Or can grieving bring 
 
 Thee back the thing 
 That has passed beyond life's portal? 
 Still, still, from the grave you fill, 
 
 Cometh a voice supernal; 
 Trust, trust, in thy God — He is just — 
 And thy sorrows will not be eternal ! 
 
 Caroll Ryan. 
 
 THE CANADIAN WHITETHROAT 
 
 From the leafy maple ridges. 
 From the thickets of the cedar, 
 From the alders by the river, 
 From the bending willow branches. 
 From the hollows and the hillsides. 
 Through the lone Canadian forest. 
 Comes the melancholy music. 
 Oft repeated — never changing — 
 " All — is — vanity- vanity- vanity ! " 
 
 When the farmer ploughs his furrow, 
 Sowing seed with hope of harvest, 
 In the orchard white with blossom, 
 In the early field of clover. 
 Comes the little brown-clad singer. 
 Flitting in and out of bushes. 
 Hiding well behind the fences. 
 Piping forth his song of sadness — 
 
 " Poor — hu — manity-manity-manity !" 
 
 J. D. Edgar.
 
 132 The Injun 
 
 THE PELICAN 
 
 Upon a Western prairie once I met 
 A flock of pelicans — a glorious sight ! 
 Now in the sun they gleamed a dazzling white, 
 Now, circling, darkened to a silhouette; 
 Great-breasted things with sweeping pinions set 
 To rhythmic curves of slow, majestic flight, 
 They rose into the measureless blue height, 
 Undaunted, radiant — I see them yet. 
 
 I see them yet ! for when I turn my eyes 
 Beyond the city walls of my despite. 
 Behold their buoyant forms still sweep the skies 
 Like spirits of the air, incarnate, bright. 
 And something untamed in me seems to rise 
 And with them breast those boundless seas of light ! 
 
 Helena Coleman. 
 
 THE INJUN 
 (An incident of the Minnesota massacre oj 1862) 
 
 Ye say the Injuns all alike, 
 
 A bad an' sneakin' lot; 
 An' ain't no use for nuthin'. 
 
 So the cusses should be shot? 
 
 Well, p'raps they is, and p'raps they ain't, 
 
 A lazy wuthless crowd ; 
 Yet durn my skin if I kin see 
 
 Why white men chin so loud. 
 
 Ef some o' them poor devils kicks 
 'Cause things ain't run quite squar; 
 
 An' jumps an Indian agent's ranch, 
 An' yanks his bloomin' har, 
 
 Thar' ain't no thought uv causes. 
 An' no one cares a cuss,
 
 The Injun 133 
 
 It's jes' call out the Blue Coats, 
 An' give 'em somethin' wuss. 
 
 Thar's good an' bad in Injuns 
 
 An' thar's good an' bad in White; 
 But somehow they is always wrong, 
 
 An' we is alius right. 
 
 But I'm an old, old timer, 
 
 I've jes' bin here so long. 
 That I kin mostly alius tell 
 
 The ones that's right an' wrong. 
 
 An' ye can bet yer sainted life. 
 
 When things get steamin' hot. 
 That some white fool or knave has lit 
 
 The fire that biles the pot. 
 
 Ye think the Injun isn't squar', 
 
 That's jes' whar' ye mistake; 
 For bein' true to them that's true 
 
 The Injun scoops the cake. 
 
 For I kin tell ye what occurr'd 
 
 Way back in sixty-two. 
 When things in Minnesota State 
 
 Wuz lookin' kinder blue. 
 
 The Sioux wer up an' on the shoot, 
 
 A-slingin' round their lead. 
 An' scalpin' every mother's son 
 
 That wasn't bald or dead. 
 
 Thar wam't a living Yankee — 
 
 An' lots sing brave and bold — 
 That would have crossed the plains alone 
 
 For a waggon-load uv gold. 
 
 'Cause why? We know'd the Guv'ment 
 
 Wuzn't treatin' Injuns fair; 
 That's why they riz an' painted things 
 
 An' raised the settlers' har.
 
 I 34 The Injun 
 
 That summer a fur trader 
 
 Came up from Montreal, 
 An' on his way to Gany 
 
 He landed at Saint Paul. 
 
 An' all the guides an' hunters said 
 He couldn't cross the plains, 
 
 Fo them thar' painted devils 
 Wuz layin' low fer trains. 
 
 He only laffed and said he know'd 
 
 The Injuns all his life, 
 An' he wuz goin' to mosey through 
 
 An' take along his wife. 
 
 An' she, you bet, wuz plucky, 
 
 An' said she'd go along, 
 For Injuns only went for them 
 
 As alius done them wrong. 
 
 Now I should smile, 'twuz risky — 
 
 An' all the fellers sed 
 The chances of thar gettin' through 
 
 Wam't worth an ounce of lead. 
 
 But sure's yer born they started. 
 Right out the northern trail, 
 
 Aboard a prairee schooner. 
 With a Texan steer fer sail. 
 
 An' right a-top that creekin' cart. 
 
 Upon the highest rack 
 That trader nailed a bloomin' rag — 
 
 An English Union Jack. 
 
 So thar' he'd gone an' done it, 
 
 Es stubborn as a mule; 
 An' knowin' fellers said we's seen 
 
 The last of that damn fool. 
 
 They wuzn't long upon the trail 
 Before a band of Reds
 
 The Injun 135 
 
 Got on their tracks, an' foller'd up 
 Agoin' to shave thair heads. 
 
 But when they see that Httle flag 
 
 A-stickin' on that cart 
 They jes' said, " Hudson Bay, go on. 
 
 Good trader with good heart ! " 
 
 An' when they struck the river, 
 
 An' took to their canoe, 
 'Twuz that thar' bit of culler 
 
 That seen 'em safely through. 
 
 Fer that cussed little rag 
 Went floatin' through the state — 
 
 A-flappin' in the face uv death, 
 An' smilin' right at fate. 
 
 That wuz the way them 'tarnal fools 
 Crossed them thar' blazin' plains. 
 
 An' floated down the windin' Red 
 Through waves with bloody stains- 
 
 What give that flag its virtoo? 
 
 What's thar' in red an' blue. 
 To make a man an' woman dar' 
 
 What others doesn't do ? 
 
 Jes' this — an' Injuns knowed it — 
 
 That whar' them cullers flew 
 The men that lived beneath them 
 
 Wuz mostly straight an' true. 
 
 That when they made a bargain, 
 
 'Twuz jes' as strong an' tight 
 As if 'twere drawn on sheep-skin. 
 
 An' signed in black an' white. 
 
 That's how them Hudson traders done, 
 
 Fer mor'n two hundred year; 
 That's why that trader feller crossed 
 
 Them plains without a fear.
 
 136 The Huron Chief's Daughter 
 
 An' jes' so long es white men 
 Don't try some little game, 
 
 To euchre out the red man, 
 So long he'll act the same. 
 
 But when the men beneath that flag 
 
 Tries any monkey ways, 
 Then, good-bye, old time friendship, 
 
 Fer the Injuns goin' to raise. 
 
 But jes' believe me, onst fer all, 
 To them that treats him fair. 
 
 The Injun mostly alius wuz. 
 And is, and will be, square. 
 
 John E. Logan, 
 
 THE HURON CHIEF'S DAUGHTER 
 
 The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre; 
 The scowl upon their knitted brows betrayed their vengeful 
 
 ire. 
 It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude, 
 To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood. . . . 
 
 lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line, 
 And e'en 'mid Europe's daughters fair, surpassing she might 
 
 shine : 
 For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier 
 
 smile, 
 Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light more full of winsome 
 
 wile. 
 
 And yet it was not wonderful, that haughty high-born grace, 
 She stood amid her direst foes a princess of her race; 
 Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her 
 
 name. 
 To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame. , . .
 
 The Huron Chief's Daughter i 37 
 
 One moment — then her proud glance fled, her form she 
 
 humbly bowed, 
 A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven 
 
 aloud : 
 " Hear me, Thou great and glorious One, Protector of my 
 
 race, 
 Whom in the far-oflf Spirit-land I'll soon see face to face! 
 
 " Pour down Thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant 
 
 rise 
 Above the guileful Iroquois — Thine and our enemies ; 
 And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high 
 
 and free, 
 That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, God, with Thee." 
 
 Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and sceptred 
 
 queen. 
 She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien, 
 E'en though the chief the signal gave, and quick two warriors 
 
 dire 
 Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit funeral pyre. 
 
 Back with an eye of flashing scorn recoiled she from their 
 
 grasp, 
 " Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of poisoned asp ! 
 My aged sire and all my tribe will learn with honest pride 
 That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's daughter 
 
 died." 
 
 She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and fearless 
 
 smile. 
 And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral pile; 
 And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their cruel 
 
 part 
 They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high and 
 
 dauntless heart. 
 
 Mrs. Leprohon.
 
 138 How the Mohawks Set Out 
 
 HOW THE MOHAWKS SET OUT FOR MEDOCTEC 
 
 When invading Mohawks captured the outlying Melicite village of 
 Madawaska, they spared two squaws to guide them down stream 
 to the main Melicite town of Medoctec below Grand Falls. The 
 squaws steered themselves and their captors over the Falls. 
 
 Grows the great deed, though none 
 Shout to behold it done ! 
 To the brave deed done by night 
 Heaven testifies in the light. 
 
 Stealthy and swift as a dream, 
 Crowding the breast of the stream, 
 In their paint and plumes of war, 
 And their war canoes four-score, 
 
 They are threading the Oolastook, 
 Where his cradling hills outlook, 
 The branchy thickets hide them; 
 The unstartled waters guide them. 
 
 II 
 
 Comes night to the quiet hills 
 Where the Madawaska spills — 
 To his slumbering huts no warning. 
 Nor mirth of another morning 1 
 
 No more shall the children wake 
 
 As the dawns through the hut-door break; 
 
 But the dogs, a trembling pack, 
 
 With wistful eyes steal back. 
 
 And to pilot the noiseless foe 
 Through the perilous passes, go 
 Two women who could not die — 
 Whom the knife in the dark passed by.
 
 How the Mohawks Set Out 139 
 
 III 
 
 Where the shoaling waters froth, 
 Churned thick Hke devil's broth, 
 Where the rocky shark- jaw waits. 
 Never a bark that grates. 
 
 And the tearless captives' skill 
 Contents them. Onward still ! 
 And the low-voiced captives tell 
 The tidings that cheer them well : 
 
 How a clear stream leads them down 
 Well-nigh to Medoctec town. 
 Ere to the Great Falls' thunder 
 The long wall yawns asunder. 
 
 IV 
 
 The clear stream glimmers before them, 
 The faint night fallen o'er them; 
 Lashed lightly bark to bark, 
 They glide the windless dark. 
 
 Late grows the night. No fear 
 While the skilful captives steer! 
 Sleeps the tired warrior, sleeps 
 The chief; and the river creeps. 
 
 In the toAvn of the Melicite 
 The unjarred peace is sweet, 
 Green grows the com and great, 
 And the hunt is fortunate. 
 
 This many a heedless year 
 The Mohawks come not near. 
 The lodge-gate stands unbarred; 
 Scarce even a dog keeps guard. 
 
 No mother shrieks from a dream 
 Of blood on the threshold stream — 
 But the thought of those mute guides 
 Is where the sleeper bides !
 
 T40 Silhouette 
 
 VI 
 
 Gets forth those cavemed walls 
 No roar from the giant Falls, 
 Whose mountainous foam treads under 
 The abyss of awful thunder. 
 
 But the river's sudden speed ! 
 How the ghost-grey shores recede ! 
 And the tearless pilots hear 
 A muttering voice creep near. 
 
 A tremor ! The blanched waves leap, 
 The warriors start from sleep. 
 Faints in the sudden blare 
 The cr}^ of their despair, 
 
 And the captives' death chant shrills, 
 But afar, remote from ills, 
 Quiet under the quiet skies, 
 The Melicite village lies. 
 
 C. G. D. Roberts. 
 
 SILHOUETTE 
 
 The sky-line melts from russet into blue, 
 Unbroken the horizon, saving where 
 A wreath of smoke curls up the far thin air. 
 
 And points the distant lodges of the Sioux. 
 
 Etched where the lands and cloudlands touch and die 
 
 A solitary Indian tepee stands. 
 
 The only habitation of these lands, 
 That roll their magnitude from sky to sky. 
 
 The tent poles lift and loom in their relief, 
 The upward floating smoke ascends between, 
 And near the open doorway, gaunt and lean. 
 
 And shadow-like there stands an Indian chief.
 
 The Quill Worker 141 
 
 With eyes that lost their lustre long ago, 
 With visage fixed and stem as fate's decree. 
 He looks towards the empty west, to see 
 
 The never-coming herd of buffalo. 
 
 Only the bones that bleach upon the plains. 
 
 Only the fleshless skeletons that lie 
 
 In ghastly nakedness and silence, cry 
 Out mutely that naught else to him remains. 
 
 THE QUILL WORKER 
 
 Plains, plains, and the prairie land which the sunlight floods 
 
 and fills, 
 To the west the open country, southward the Cypress hills; 
 Never a bit of woodland, never a rill that flows. 
 Only a stretch of cactus beds, and the wild, sweet prairie rose; 
 Never a habitation, save where in the far south-west, 
 A solitary tepee lifts its solitary crest, 
 
 Where Neykia in the doorway, crouched in the red sunshine, 
 Broiders her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine, 
 
 Neykia, the Sioux chieftain's daughter, she with the foot that 
 
 flies, 
 She with the hair of midnight, and the wondrous midnight 
 
 eyes. 
 She with the deft, brown fingers, she with the soft, slow 
 
 smile, 
 She with the voice of velvet, and the thoughts that dream the 
 
 while, 
 "Whence come the vague to-morrows? Where do the 
 
 yesters fly ? 
 What is beyond the border of the prairie and the sky.? 
 Does the maid in the Land of Morning sit in the red sunshine, 
 Broidering her buckskin mantle with the quills of the 
 
 porcupine? " 
 
 So Neykia in the westland wonders and works away, 
 
 Far from the fret and the folly of the " Land of waking day."
 
 142 The Forsaken 
 
 And many the pale-faced trader who stops at the tepee door 
 For a smile from the sweet, shy worker, and a sigh when the 
 
 hour is o'er. 
 For they know of a young red hunter who oftentimes has 
 
 stayed 
 To rest and smoke with her father, tho' his eyes were on the 
 
 maid; 
 And the moons will not be many ere she in the red sunshine 
 Will broider his buckskin mantle with the quills of the por- 
 cupine. 
 
 E. Pauline Johnson. 
 
 THE FORSAKEN 
 
 I 
 Once in the winter, 
 Out on a lake 
 
 In the heart of the Northland, 
 Far from the fort 
 And far from the hunters, 
 A Chippewa woman 
 With her sick baby, 
 Crouched in the last hours 
 Of a great storm. 
 Frozen and hungry. 
 She fished through the ice 
 With a line of the twisted 
 Bark of the cedar, 
 And a rabbit-bone hook 
 Polished and barbed; 
 Fished with the bare hook 
 All through the day, 
 Fished and caught nothing; 
 While the young chieftain 
 Tugged at her breasts. 
 Or slept in the lacings 
 Of the warm tikanagan}- 
 All the lake surface 
 Steamed with the hissing 
 > Tikanagan is Opbeway word for Indian cradle.
 
 The Forsaken 143 
 
 Of millions of ice flakes, 
 
 Hurled by the wind; 
 
 Behind her the sound 
 
 Of a lonely island 
 
 Roared like a fire 
 
 With the voice of the storm 
 
 In the deep of the cedars. 
 
 Valiant, unshaken, 
 
 She took of her own flesh, 
 
 Baited the fish-hook, 
 
 Drew in a gray trout, 
 
 Drew in his fellow. 
 
 Heaped them beside her 
 
 Dead in the snow. 
 
 Valiant, unshaken. 
 
 She faced the long distance, 
 
 Wolf-haunted and lonely, 
 
 Sure of her goal 
 
 And the life of her dear one; 
 
 Tramped for two days. 
 
 On the third in the morning. 
 
 Saw the strong bulk 
 
 Of the fort by the river. 
 
 Saw the wood smoke 
 
 Hang soft in the spruces, 
 
 Heard the keen yelp 
 
 Of the ravenous huskies^ 
 
 Fighting for white fish : 
 
 Then she had rest. 
 
 II 
 
 Years and years after; 
 When she was old and withered, 
 When her son was an old man 
 And his children filled with vigour. 
 They came in their northern tour on the verge of winter. 
 To an island in a lonely lake. 
 There one night they camped, and on the morrow 
 Gathered their kettles and birch-bark. 
 Their rabbit-skin robes and their mink-traps, 
 Launched their canoes and slunk away through the islands, 
 ^ Huskies — sledge dogs.
 
 144 ^t*^ Forsaken 
 
 Left her alone forever, 
 
 Without a word of farewell, 
 
 Because she was old and useless, 
 
 Like a paddle worn and warped. 
 
 Or a pole that was splintered. 
 
 Then, without a sigh. 
 
 Valiant, unshaken, 
 
 She smoothed her dark locks under her kerchief. 
 
 Composed her shawl in state. 
 
 Then folded her hands ridged with sinews and corded with 
 
 veins. 
 Folded them across her breasts spent with the nourishing of 
 
 children, 
 Gazed at the sky past the tops of the cedars. 
 Saw two spangled nights arise out of the twilight. 
 Saw two days go by filled with the tranquil sunshine. 
 Saw without pain or dread, or even a moment of longing: 
 Then on the third great night there came thronging and 
 
 thronging 
 Millions of snowflakes out of a windless cloud; 
 They covered her close with a beautiful crystal shroud, 
 Covered her deep and silent. 
 But in the frost of the dawn, 
 Up from the life below, 
 Rose a column of breath 
 Through a tiny cleft in the snow. 
 Fragile, delicately drawn. 
 Wavering with its own weakness, 
 In the wilderness a sign of the spirit, 
 Persisting still in the light of the sun 
 Till day was done. 
 Then all light was gathered up by the hand of God and hid in 
 
 His breast. 
 Then there was born a silence deeper than silence, 
 Then she had rest.^ 
 
 *The story is true. Told the author by the Hudson Bay Company's 
 factor at Nepigon House.
 
 The Half-Breed Girl 145 
 
 THE HALF-BREED GIRL 
 
 She is free of the trap and the paddle, 
 
 The portage and the trail, 
 But something behind her savage life 
 
 Shines like a fragile veil. 
 
 Her dreams are undiscovered, 
 
 Shadows trouble her breast. 
 When the time for resting cometh 
 
 Then least is she at rest. 
 
 Oft in the morns of winter. 
 When she visits the rabbit snares, 
 
 An appearance floats in the crystal air 
 Beyond the balsam firs. 
 
 Oft in the summer mornings 
 When she strips the nets of fish. 
 
 The smell of the dripping net-twine 
 Gives to her heart a wish. 
 
 But she cannot learn the meaning 
 
 Of the shadows in her soul. 
 The lights that break and gather, 
 
 The clouds that part and roll. 
 
 The reek of rock-built cities. 
 Where her fathers dwelt of yore. 
 
 The gleam of loch and shealing. 
 The mist on the moor. 
 
 Frail traces of kindred kindness. 
 
 Of feud by hill and strand. 
 The heritage of an age-long life 
 
 In a legendary land. 
 
 She wakes in the stifling wigwam. 
 Where the air is heavy and wild, 
 
 She fears for something or nothing 
 With the heart of a frightened child. 
 
 K
 
 146 On the Way to the Mission 
 
 She sees the stars turn slowly 
 Past the tangle of the poles, 
 
 Through the smoke of the dying embers, 
 Like the eyes of dead souls. 
 
 Her heart is shaken with longing 
 For the strange, still years. 
 
 For what she knows and knows not, 
 For the wells of ancient tears. 
 
 A voice calls from the rapids, 
 
 Deep, careless, and free, 
 A voice that is larger than her life 
 
 Or than her death shall be. 
 
 She covers her face with her blanket, 
 Her fierce soul hates her breath. 
 
 As it cries with a sudden passion 
 For life or death. 
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE MISSION 
 
 They dogged him all one afternoon 
 
 Through the bright snow, 
 
 Two white men servants of greed ; 
 
 He knew that they were there. 
 
 But he turned not his head; 
 
 He was an Indian trapper; 
 
 He planted his snow-shoes firmly. 
 
 He dragged the long toboggan 
 
 Without rest. 
 
 The three figures drifted 
 
 Like shadows in the mind of a seer; 
 
 The snow-shoes were the whisperers 
 
 On the threshold of awe ; 
 
 The toboggan made the sound of wings, 
 
 A wood pigeon sloping to her nest.
 
 On the Way to the Mission 147 
 
 The Indian's face was calm, 
 
 He strode with the sorrow of fore-knowledge, 
 
 But his eyes were jewels of content 
 
 Set in circles of peace. 
 
 They would have shot him; 
 But momently in the deep forest. 
 They saw something flit by his side; 
 Their hearts stopped with fear. 
 
 Then the moon rose. 
 
 They would have left him to the spirit. 
 
 But they saw the long toboggan 
 
 Rounded well with furs, 
 
 With many a silver fox-skin. 
 
 With the pelts of mink and otter, 
 
 They were the servants of greed; 
 
 When the moon grew brighter 
 
 And the spruces were dark with sleet. 
 
 They shot him. 
 
 When he fell on a shield of moonlight 
 One of his arms clung to his burden; 
 The snow was not melted: 
 The spirit passed away — 
 Then the servants of greed 
 Tore off the cover to count their gains; 
 They shuddered away into the shadows, 
 Hearing each the loud heart of the other. 
 Silence was born. 
 
 There in the tender moonlight, 
 
 As sweet as thev were in Hfe, 
 Glmimered the ivory features 
 
 Of the Indian's wife. 
 
 In the manner of Montagnai's women 
 
 Her hair was rolled with braid; 
 Under her waxen fingers 
 
 A crucifix was laid.
 
 148 Thunderchild's Lament 
 
 He was drawing her down to the mission, 
 
 To bury her there in the spring, 
 When the blood root comes and the windflower 
 
 To silver everything. 
 
 But as a gift of plunder 
 
 Side by side were they laid. 
 The moon went on with her setting 
 
 And covered them with shade. 
 
 Duncan Campbell Scott. 
 
 THUNDERCHILD'S LAMENT 
 
 When the years grew worse, and the tribe longed sore 
 For a kinsman bred to the white man's lore. 
 To the mission school they sent forth me 
 From the hunting life and the skin tepee. 
 
 In the mission school eight years I wrought 
 Till my heart grew strange to its boyhood's thought, 
 Then the white men sent me forth from their ways 
 To the Blackfoot lodge and the roving days. 
 
 " He tells of their God," said the chiefs when I spake, 
 " But naught of the magic our foemen make, 
 'Tis a Blackfoot heart, with a white man's fear. 
 And all skill forgot that could help him here." 
 
 For the mission priest had bent my will 
 From the art to steal and the mind to kill, 
 Then out from the life I had learned sent me 
 To the hungry plain and the dim tepee. 
 
 When the moon of March was great and round. 
 No meat for my father's teeth I found ; 
 When the moon of March was curved and thin, 
 No meat for his life could hunting win. 
 
 Wide went the track of my snow-shoe mesh, 
 Deep was the white, and it still fell fresh
 
 Thunderchild's Lament 149 
 
 Far on the foothills^ far on the plain, 
 
 When I searched for the elk and grouse in vain. 
 
 In the lodge lay my father, grim in the smoke, 
 His eyes pierced mine as the gray dawn broke, 
 He gnawed on the edge of the buffalo hide. 
 And I must be accurst if my father died. 
 
 He spoke with wail, " In the famine year 
 
 When my father starved as I starve here, 
 
 Was my heart like the squaw's who has fear to slay 
 
 'Mongst the herds of the white man far away? " 
 
 From the mission school they sent forth me 
 To the gaunt wild life of the dark tepee ; 
 With the fear to steal, and the dread to kill, 
 And the love of Christ they had bent my will. 
 
 But my father gnawed on the buffalo hide; 
 Toward the sunrise trod my snow-shoe stride, 
 Straight to the white man's herd it led, 
 Till the sun sank down at my back in red. 
 
 Next dawn was bleak when I slew the steer, 
 And I ate of the raw, and it gave me cheer; 
 So I set my feet in the track once more, 
 With my father's life in the meal I bore. 
 
 Far strode the herder, fast on my trail ; 
 Noon was high when I heard his hail; 
 I fled in fear, but my feet moved slow, 
 For the load I shouldered sunk them low. 
 
 Then I heard no sound but the creak and clack, 
 Of his snow-shoes treading my snow-shoe track. 
 And I saw never help in plain or sky 
 Save that he should die, or my father die. 
 
 The mission priest had broke my will. 
 With the curse on him who blood would spill, 
 But my father starved in the black tepee, 
 And the cry of his starving shrieked to me.
 
 150 Taapookaa 
 
 The white world reeled to its cloudy rim, 
 
 The plain reeled red as I knelt by him — 
 
 Oh, the spot in the snow, how it pulsed and grew, 
 
 How it cried from the snow-white up to the blue ! 
 
 For the mission priest had sent forth me 
 To the work and deeds of the wild tepee, 
 Yet the fear of God's strong curse fulfilled 
 Cried with the blood that would not be stilled. 
 
 They found me not while the year was green. 
 And the rose blew sweet where the slain had been, 
 They found me not when the fall-flowers flare. 
 But the red in the snow was ever there. 
 
 To the jail I fled from the safe tepee, 
 And the mission priest will send forth me, 
 A Blackfoot soul cleansed white from stain — 
 Yet never the red spot fades from the plain. 
 
 It glares in my eyes when sunbeams fall. 
 Through the iron gate of my stone-grey wall. 
 And I see, through starlight, foxes go 
 To track and to taste of the ruddy snow. 
 
 E. W. Thomson. 
 
 TAAPOOKAA 
 {A Huron Legend) 
 
 The clouds roll over the pine trees. 
 Like waves that are charged with ire; 
 
 Golden and glory-hued their crests, 
 Ablaze with a gorgeous fire. 
 
 The sun has gone down in splendour, 
 The heavens are wild with flame. 
 
 And all the horizon is burning 
 With colours that have no name. 
 
 And over the mighty forests 
 The mystical hues are spread.
 
 Taapookaa i 5 1 
 
 As calm as the smiles of angels, 
 As still as the peaceful dead. 
 
 And the isle serene and thoughtful, 
 
 And the river deep in dreams, 
 And the purple cHff in the distance, 
 
 Are robed with the glory-gleams. 
 
 Until earth seems a sacred temple, 
 
 Where spirits of light have trod, 
 Where man should not dare to enter; 
 
 Too sacred for aught but Godi 
 
 Calm eve over lovely Huron, 
 
 Calm eve in the sombre wild. 
 And over the rude bark wigwam 
 
 Of the swarthy forest child. 
 
 There's a gathering of the red men, 
 Of their youths and maidens fair, 
 
 Of the mothers of braves and heroes. 
 And the feast is spreading there. 
 
 From the banks of the Cadaraiqui, 
 
 From Niagara's solitudes, 
 Where the song of the Water-Spirit 
 
 Rolled vast through the primal woods; 
 
 From Superior's rocky defiles. 
 
 Her grand and rugged shores, 
 From Otuwa and blue-waved Erie, 
 
 Came the Chiefs and Sagamores, 
 
 Bringing gifts from the distant lodges, 
 
 Rare gifts for the lovely bride — 
 Taapookaa, the fairest maiden 
 
 That ever for true love sighed. 
 
 Taapookaa, the loved, the lovely. 
 
 No beauty was there like hers. 
 And through all the tribes of the forest 
 
 The braves were her worshippers.
 
 152 Taapookaa 
 
 But where is her young Sioux lover, 
 The pride of her trusting heart? 
 
 The brave that her love has chosen, 
 Whose life is of hers a part. 
 
 Away from the bridal revels, 
 Away from the feast he roves, 
 
 Alone over lonely rivers, 
 Alone in the lonely groves ! 
 
 Taapookaa must wed another 
 
 The chief of a neighbouring tribe; 
 
 Neither force nor friends can save her, 
 Neither tears nor prayer can bribe ! 
 
 For this have the chieftains gathered, 
 Great chiefs from the wilds afar; 
 
 They have prayed to Manitou freely. 
 And saluted the bridal star. 
 
 All things for the feast are ready, 
 
 All ripe for the revelry, 
 And the bridegroom-chief is waiting — 
 
 But Taapookaa, where is she? 
 
 Like the zephyr that bends the flowers, 
 That bendeth but may not break. 
 
 So lightly her footstep treadeth 
 The chff o'er the calmy lake. 
 
 The stars are all weeping for her, 
 The moon has a look forlorn, 
 
 For the beautiful maid all blushes, 
 All blushes, and truth, and scorn ! 
 
 The breeze has a mournful cadence, 
 A sigh for the fairest fair; 
 
 It cooleth her maiden blushes. 
 And fingers her jetty hair. 
 
 Like a tragic queen she standeth 
 On the jagged cliff alone;
 
 The Legend of Qu'Apelle Valley 153 
 
 All nature has paused to shudder, 
 And the stricken forests moan. 
 
 A prayer for her young Sioux lover, 
 
 That wanders the wilds forlorn, 
 And she leaps from the cliff, all daring. 
 
 And maidenly truth, and scorn. 
 
 At night when the stars are shining, 
 
 And the moon, with silvery hue, 
 Illumines the lake with radiance, 
 
 Is seen a white canoe; 
 
 Two shadowy forms within it, 
 
 Two faces that seem to smile — 
 The maid and her brave Sioux lover 
 
 Returned from the Spirit Isle. 
 
 Charles Sangster. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF QU'APELLE VALLEY 
 
 I AM the one who loved her as my Ufe, 
 
 Had watched her grow to sweet young womanhood ; 
 Won the dear privilege to call her wife, 
 
 And found the world, because of her, was good. 
 
 I am the one who heard the spirit voice. 
 Of which the pale-face settlers love to tell; 
 
 From whose strange story they have made their choice 
 Of naming this fair valley the " Qu'Apelle." 
 
 She had said fondly in my eager ear: 
 
 " When Indian summer smiles with dusky lip, 
 Come to the lakes, I will be first to hear 
 
 The welcome music of thy paddle dip. 
 I will be first to lay in thine my hand. 
 
 To whisper words of greeting on the shore; 
 And when thou would'st return to thine own land, 
 
 I'll go with thee, thy wife for evermore."
 
 154 T"he Legend of Qu'Apelle Valley 
 
 Not yet a leaf had fallen, nor a tone 
 
 Of frost upon the plain, ere I set forth. 
 Impatient to possess her as my own — 
 
 This queen of all the women of the North. 
 I rested not at even or at dawn, 
 
 But journeyed all the dark and daylight through — 
 Until I reached the lakes, and hurrying on, 
 
 I launched upon their bosom my canoe. 
 
 Of sleep and hunger then I took no heed. 
 
 But hastened o'er these leagues of waterways; 
 But my hot heart outstripped my paddle's speed 
 
 And waited not for distance or for days, 
 But flew before me swifter than the blade 
 
 Of magic paddle ever cleaved the lake. 
 Eager to lay its love before the maid, 
 
 And watch the love-light in her eyes awake. 
 
 So the long days went slowly drifting past; 
 
 It seemed that half my life must interv^ene 
 Before the morrow, when I said at last — 
 
 " One more day's journey and I win my queen ! " 
 I rested then, and drifted, dreamed the more 
 
 Of all the happiness I was to claim — 
 When suddenly from out the shadowed shore 
 
 I heard a voice speak tenderly my name. 
 
 " Who calls? " I answered; no reply; and long 
 
 I stilled my paddle blade and listened. Then 
 Above the night-wind's melancholy song 
 
 I heard distinctly that strange voice again — 
 A woman's voice, that through the twilight came 
 
 Like to a soul unborn — a song unsung. 
 I leaned and listened — Yes, she spake my name. 
 
 And then I answered in the quaint French tongue, 
 " Qu'Apelle? Qu'Apelle? " No answer, and the night 
 
 Seemed stiller for the sound, till round me fell 
 The far-off echoes from the far-off height — 
 
 "Qu'Apelle?" my voice came back, "Qu'Apelle? 
 Qu'Apelle?" 
 This — and no more; I called aloud until 
 
 I shuddered as the gloom of night increased,
 
 The Legend of Qu'Apelle Valley 155 
 
 And like a pallid spectre wan and chill 
 The moon rose in silence from the East. 
 
 I dare not linger on the moment when 
 
 My boat I beached beside her tepee door; 
 I heard the wail of women and of men, 
 
 I saw the death-fires lighted on the shore. 
 No language tells the torture or the pain, 
 
 The bitterness that flooded all my life, 
 When I was led to look on her again, 
 
 That queen of women pledged to be my wife. 
 
 To look upon the beauty of her face. 
 
 The still closed eyes, the lips that knew no breath; 
 To look to learn — to realise my place 
 
 Had been usurped by my one rival — Death. 
 A storm of wrecking sorrow beat and broke 
 
 About my heart, and life shut out its light 
 Till through my anguish some one gently spoke, 
 
 And said, " twice did she call for thee last night." 
 I started up — and bending o'er my dead, 
 
 Asked when did her sweet lips in silence cease. 
 " She called thy name — then passed away," they said, 
 
 " Just on the hour whereat the moon arose." 
 Among the lonely lakes I go no more. 
 
 For she who made their beauty is not there; 
 The pale face loves his tepee on the shore 
 
 And says the vale is fairest of the fair. 
 
 Full many years have vanished since, but still 
 
 The voyageurs beside the camp fire tell 
 How, when the moon rise tips the distant hill, 
 
 They hear strange voices through the silence swell. 
 The pale face loves the haunted lakes, they say, 
 
 And journeys far to watch their beauty spread 
 Before his vision; but to me the day, 
 
 The night, the hour, the seasons all are dead. 
 I listen heartsick, while the hunters tell 
 Why white men named the valley the Qu'Apelle. 
 
 E. Pauline Johnson.
 
 156 The Passing of Clote-Scarp 
 
 THE PASSING OF CLOTE-SCARP (OR GLOOSCAP)i 
 
 Hark ! through the twilight stillness, 
 
 Across the sleeping lake, 
 What notes of mournful cadence 
 
 The charmed stillness break! 
 
 Is it a wailing spirit 
 
 That lingers on its flight, 
 Or voice of human sorrow 
 
 That echoes through the night? 
 
 Nay, not from man or spirit 
 
 Does that weird music flow; 
 'Tis the bird that waits for Clote-Scarp, 
 
 As the ages come and go. 
 
 Still in the Micmac lodges 
 
 Is the old story told 
 How Clote-Scarp passed, and ended 
 
 Acadia's age of gold; 
 
 In the primeval forests. 
 
 In the happy old days, 
 The men and beasts lived peaceful 
 
 Among the woodland ways. 
 
 The forest knew no spoiler; 
 
 No timid beast or bird 
 Feared fang or spear or arrow; 
 
 No cry of pain was heard; 
 
 For all loved gentle Clote-Scarp, 
 And Clote-Scarp loved them all. 
 
 And men and beasts and fishes 
 Obeyed his welcome call, 
 
 * Clote-Scarp or Glooscap is the Micmac Hiawatha, with something of 
 the western Balder and Hiawatha combined.
 
 The Passing of Clote-Scarp 157 
 
 The birds came circling round him 
 
 With carols gay and sweet; 
 The little wilding blossoms 
 
 Sprang smiling at his feet. 
 
 All spake one simple language, 
 
 And Clote-Scarp understood. 
 And in his tones of music, 
 
 Taught them that love was good ! 
 
 But in the course of ages 
 
 An alien spirit woke, 
 And men and woodland creatures 
 
 Their peaceful compact broke. 
 
 Then through the gloomy forest 
 
 The hunter tracked his prey; 
 The bear and wolf went roaming 
 
 To ravage and to slay; 
 
 Through the long reeds and grasses 
 
 Stole out the slimy snake ; 
 The hawk pounced on the nestling, 
 
 Close cowering in the brake; 
 
 The beaver built his stronghold 
 
 Beneath the river's flow; 
 The partridge sought the covert 
 
 Where beeches closest grow. 
 
 In mute and trembling terror 
 
 Each timid creature fled, 
 To seek the safest refuge 
 
 And hide its hunted head! 
 
 In sorrow and in anger 
 
 The gentle Clote-Scarp spake : 
 " My soul can bear no longer 
 
 The havoc that ye make ! 
 
 " Ye will not heed my bidding; 
 
 I cannot stay your strife, 
 And so I needs must leave you 
 
 Till love renew your life."
 
 158 The Passing of Clote-Scarp 
 
 Then by the great wide water 
 He made a parting feast; 
 
 The men refused his bidding. 
 But there came bird and beast. 
 
 There came the bear and walrus, 
 The wolf with bristling crest; 
 
 There came the busy beaver, 
 The deer with bounding breast; 
 
 There came the mink and otter, 
 The seal with wistful eves: 
 
 The birds in countless numbers, 
 With sad imploring cries ! 
 
 But when the feast was over 
 He launched his bark canoe; 
 
 The wistful creatures watched him 
 Swift gliding from their view. 
 
 They heard his far-off singing 
 Through the fast-falling night, 
 
 Till on the dim horizon 
 
 He vanished from their sight ! 
 
 And then a wail of sorrow 
 Went up from one and all, 
 
 Then echoed through the twilight 
 The loon's long mournful call. 
 
 But all in vain the wailing. 
 In vain that wistful cry. 
 
 Alone, through deepening shadows. 
 The echoes made reply! 
 
 Still, through the twilight echoes 
 That cadence wild and shrill. 
 
 But on a blessed island 
 Clote-Scarp is waiting still. 
 
 No darkness, cold, or tempest 
 Comes near that happy spot; 
 
 It fears no touch of winter. 
 For winter's self is not.
 
 Dawn 159 
 
 And there waits gentle Clote-Scarp 
 
 Till happier days shall fall, 
 Till strife be fled for ever, 
 
 And Love be Lord of all ! 
 
 Agnes Maude Machar. 
 
 FROM " SONG WAVES " 
 
 Pure lily, open on the breast 
 Of toiling waters' much unrest. 
 
 Thy simple soul mounts up in worship 
 Like ecstasy of a spirit blest ! 
 
 Thy wealth of ivory and gold, 
 
 All that thou hast, thou dost unfold ! 
 
 Fixed in the unseen thy life breathes upward 
 A heavenly essence from out earth's mould. 
 
 Now comes the chill and dark of night. 
 Folds up thy precious gold and white ! 
 
 Thy casket sinks within veiled bosom, 
 To ope the richer on to-morrow's light. 
 
 Theodore H. Rand. 
 
 DAWN 
 
 The night had brooded long, the air was chill. 
 Across the open fields the frost bit deep, 
 The restless, formless mists, that seemed to creep 
 Like ghostly wraiths, had swallowed up the hill; 
 The sombre pines had ceased their plaint of ill 
 But yet uplifted pleading arms ; the sheep 
 And stiff-necked kine were huddled half asleep. 
 And all the forest hung inert and still; 
 
 When on the silence fell a tenser hush, 
 A film of greyness smote the dark and spread. 
 And slowly in the east a trembling flush 
 Shot upward, till the sullen mists, withdrawn. 
 Showed all the vanquished shadows fled, 
 And myriad heralds cried, " The Dawn! The Dawn! " 
 
 Helena Coleman.
 
 i6o The Sunflowers 
 
 AT WAKING 
 
 When I shall go to sleep and wake again 
 At dawning in another world than this. 
 What will atone to me for all I miss ? 
 
 The light melodious footsteps of the rain, 
 
 The press of leaves against my window pane, 
 The sunset wistfulness and morning bliss, 
 The moon's enchantment and the twilight kiss 
 
 Of winds that wander with me through the lane. 
 
 Will not my soul remember evermore 
 
 The earthly winter's hunger for the spring, 
 The wet sweet cheek of April, and the rush 
 Of roses through the summer's open door; 
 The feelings that the scented woodlands bring 
 At evening with the singing of the thrush? 
 
 THE SUNFLOWERS 
 
 When lamps are out and voices fled, 
 And moonlight floods the earth like rain, 
 I steal outside and cross the lane 
 
 And stand beside the sunflower bed; 
 
 Each blind, unopened face is turned 
 
 To where the western glories burned. 
 As though the sun might come again 
 
 With some last word he left unsaid. 
 
 When dawn with slender shining hand 
 Inscribes a message on the wall, 
 I follow at the silent call 
 
 To where my tall sun-lovers stand. 
 
 Their wistful heads are lifted high 
 
 Toward the flaming eastern sky. 
 As though some voice had turned them all^ 
 
 Some secret voice of strong command.
 
 Origins i6i 
 
 Ah, should I from the windowed height 
 
 Keep vigil in the room above 
 
 And see them lightly, surely move 
 Through the chill stretches of the night, 
 Would not the heart within me bum. 
 As loyally I watched them turn. 
 
 With sweet undoubting faith and love 
 From vanished light to dawning light? 
 
 Ethelw^yn Wetherald. 
 
 ORIGINS 
 
 Out of the dreams that heap 
 The hollow hand of sleep, 
 Out of the dark sublime. 
 The echoing deeps of time, 
 From the averted Face 
 Beyond the bournes of space, 
 Into the sudden sun 
 We journey, one by one. 
 Out of the hidden shade 
 Wherein desire is made. 
 Out of the pregnant stir 
 Where death and life confer, 
 The dark and mystic heat 
 Where soul and matter meet, 
 The enigmatic will, 
 We start, and then are still. 
 
 Inexorably decreed 
 By the ancestral deed. 
 The puppets of our sires, 
 We work out bUnd desires, 
 And for our sons ordain 
 The blessing or the bane. 
 In ignorance we stand 
 With fate on either hand, 
 And question stars and earth 
 Of life, and death, and birth.
 
 I 62 The Prospector 
 
 With wonder in our eyes 
 We scan the kindred skies, 
 While through the common grass 
 Our atoms mix and pass. 
 We feel the sap go free 
 When spring comes to the tree ; 
 And in our blood is stirred 
 What warms the brooding bird. 
 
 The vital fire we breathe 
 That bird and blade bequeathe. 
 And strength of native clay- 
 In our full veins hath sway. 
 But in the urge intense 
 And fellowship of sense, 
 Suddenly comes a word 
 In other ages heard ; 
 On a great wind our souls 
 Are borne to unknown goals, 
 And past the bourne of space 
 To the unaverted Face. 
 
 C. G. D. Roberts. 
 
 THE PROSPECTOR 
 
 Lured by the golden glamour of the West, 
 He crossed the pathless plains and scaled the bold 
 Titanic forms that, rising fold on fold, 
 Touch heaven's blue; and toiling, strove to wrest 
 From nature's rugged and reluctant breast 
 The treasure she had hidden there of old — 
 The treasure of her hoarded gold — 
 Seductive hope of many a hapless quest! 
 
 For this he left all other hopes behind. 
 
 And gave his manhood's prime and powers away. 
 
 Content to be forgotten of his kind — 
 
 Yet all the while within himself there lay 
 
 The unregarded treasure of the mind, 
 
 Deep-buried, priceless, wasting day by day. 
 
 Helena Coleman.
 
 A Good Woman 163 
 
 SUNRISE ON THE OCEAN 
 
 The sails are idly hanging from the spars; 
 
 The dreaming waves are crooning lullabies; 
 
 While mounting towards the zenith slowly rise ' 
 With noiseless tread the retiring sentinel stars, 
 Whose watch is past. The gate of Orient jars, 
 
 And lo ! the golden sun in heavenly guise, 
 
 Divinely glorious sight for angel eyes — 
 Comes forth full-robed to meet at heaven's bars 
 Her bridegroom, Ocean, with his wealth of ships — 
 
 A galaxy of sails, an endless fleet — 
 With which he greets her; and her flaming lips 
 
 Kiss every passing wave which shoreward beat; 
 And from the foaming crystal cup she sips 
 
 The life-wine of the flood, and calls it sweet. 
 
 Mrs, S. E. Sherwood Faulkner. 
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 Her eyes are the windows of a soul 
 Where only the white thoughts spring, 
 
 And they look as the eyes of the angels look, 
 For the good in everything. 
 
 Her lips can whisper the tenderest words 
 
 That weary and worn can hear, 
 Can tell of the dawn of a better morn 
 
 Till only the cowards fear. 
 
 Her hands can lift up the fallen one 
 
 From an overthrow complete. 
 Can take a soul from the mire of sin 
 
 And lead it to Christ's dear feet. 
 
 And she can walk wherever she will — 
 
 She walketh never alone. 
 The work she does is the Master's work, 
 
 And God guards well His own. 
 
 Jean Blewett.
 
 164 A Sister of Charity 
 
 A SISTER OF CHARITY 
 
 She made a nunnery of her life, 
 Plain duties hedged it round, 
 
 No echoes of the outer strife 
 
 Could reach its hallowed ground. 
 
 Her rule was simple as her creed, 
 
 She tried to do each day 
 Some act of kindness that might speed 
 
 A sad soul on its way. 
 
 She had no wealth, and yet she made 
 
 So many rich at heart; 
 Her lot was hidden, yet she played 
 
 No inconspicuous part. 
 
 Some wondered men had passed her by, 
 Some said she would not wed, 
 
 I think the secret truth must lie 
 Long buried with the dead. 
 
 That cheery smile, that gentle touch, 
 That heart so free from stain. 
 
 Could have no other source but such 
 As lies in conquered pain. 
 
 All living creatures loved her well. 
 And blessed the ground she trod; 
 
 The pencillings on her Bible tell 
 Her communing with God. 
 
 ^o 
 
 And when the call came suddenly. 
 
 And sleep preceded death, 
 There was no struggle we could see. 
 
 No hard and laboured breath. 
 
 Gently as dawn the end drew nigh; 
 
 Her life had been so sweet, 
 I think she did not need to die 
 
 To reach the Master's feet. 
 
 F. G. Scott.
 
 Swallow Song 165 
 
 BE MERCIFUL TO THE HORSE 
 
 Do the beasts of burden that strive and groan 
 And writhe and crouch 'neath the pitiless rod — 
 
 Are they never allowed to make their moan 
 And lay their wrongs at the feet of God ? 
 
 All day I've watched from my window high 
 The infamous street where the horsewhips hiss, 
 
 And I asked myself, will the day e'er come 
 When man will answer for all of this ? 
 
 For I saw a horse with starting eyes, 
 With straining nerves and a throbbing flank; 
 
 I saw him strive till his strength gave out 
 And he on the murderous pavement sank; 
 
 I heard a curse from a lower beast : 
 I heard his whip lash crack like shot: 
 
 I watched and heard till my heart was sore, 
 And all the blood in my veins was hot. 
 
 Thou wretch with the whip, remember this, 
 Remember, thou knight of the curse and rod: 
 
 The voiceless cry of a stricken beast 
 Is heard by the pitying ears of God. 
 
 R. K. Kerningham. 
 
 SWALLOW SONG 
 
 Oh, little hearts, beat home, beat home, 
 
 Here is no place to rest. 
 Night darkens on the falling foam 
 
 And on the fading west. 
 Oh, little wings, beat home, beat home. 
 
 Love may no longer roam. 
 
 love has touched the fields of wheat, 
 And love has crowned the com,
 
 t66 The Shepherd Boy 
 
 And we must follow love's white feet 
 
 Thro' all the ways of mom; 
 Through all the silver roads of air 
 
 We pass, and have no care. 
 
 The silver roads of love are wide, 
 
 winds that blow, stars that guide, 
 
 Sweet are the ways that love has trod 
 Thro' the clear skies that lead to God; 
 
 But in the cliff-grass love builds deep 
 A place where wandering wings may sleep. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD BOY 
 
 When the red moon hangs over the fold 
 And the cypress shadow is rimmed with gold, 
 
 little sheep, I have laid me low, 
 My face against the old earth's face. 
 Where one by one the white moths go 
 And the brown bee has his sleeping-place. 
 And then I have whispered, " Mother, hear, 
 For the owls are awake and the night is near, 
 And whether I lay me near or far, 
 
 No lip shall kiss me, 
 
 No eye shall miss me, 
 
 Saving the eye of a cold white star." 
 
 And the old brown woman answers mild, 
 " Rest you safe on my heart, child. 
 Many a shepherd, many a king, 
 
 1 fold them safe from their sorrowing. 
 Gwenever's heart is bound with dust, 
 Tristram dreams of the dappled doe. 
 But the bugle moulders, the blade is rust. 
 Stilled are the trumpets of Jericho, 
 
 And the tired men sleep by the walls of Troy. 
 
 Little and lonely. 
 
 Knowing me only. 
 
 Shall I not comfort you, shepherd boy? "
 
 The Immortal 167 
 
 When the wind wakes in the apple tree 
 
 And the shy hare feeds on the wild fern stem, 
 
 I say my prayers to the Trinity, 
 
 The prayers that are three and the charms that are seven 
 
 To the angels guarding the towers of heaven, 
 
 And I lay my head on her raiment's hem, 
 
 Where the young grass darkens the strawberry star. 
 
 Where the iris buds and the bellworts are. 
 
 All night I hear her breath go by, 
 
 Under the arch of the empty sky, 
 
 All night her heart beats under my head, 
 
 And I lie as still as the ancient dead, 
 
 Warm as the young lambs there with the sheep. 
 
 I and no other, 
 
 Close to my mother, 
 
 Fold my hands in her hands and sleep. 
 
 THE IMMORTAL 
 
 Beauty is still immortal in our eyes. 
 
 When sways no more the spirit-haunted reed. 
 
 When the wild grape shall build 
 
 No more her canopies, 
 
 When blows no more the moon-grey thistle seed. 
 
 When the last bell has lulled the white flocks home, 
 
 When the last eve has stilled 
 
 The wandering wind and touched the dying foam. 
 
 When the last moon bums low, and spark by spark 
 
 The little worlds die out along the dark. 
 
 Beauty that rosed the moth-wing, touched the land 
 With clover horns and delicate faint flowers, 
 Beauty that bade the showers 
 Beat on the violet's face. 
 
 Shall hold the eternal heavens within their place 
 And hear new stars come singing from God's hand. 
 
 Marjorie L. C. Pickthall.
 
 AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND
 
 AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND 
 
 THE DOMINION, 1883 
 
 Oh, fair Ideal, unto whom 
 Through days of doubt and nights of gloom, 
 Brave hearts have clung, while lips of scorn 
 
 Made mock of thee as but a dream — 
 Already on the heights of morn 
 We see thy golden sandals gleam, 
 And, glimmering through the clouds that wrap thee yet, 
 The seven stars that are thy coronet. 
 
 Why tarriest thou 'twixt earth and heaven ? 
 Go forth to meet her, sisters seven ! 
 'Tis but your welcome she awaits 
 
 Ere, casting off the veil of cloud, 
 The bodied Hope of blending States, 
 She stands revealed, imperial, proud; 
 As from your salutation sprung full-grown, 
 With green for raiment and with gold for zone. 
 
 From where beneath unclouded skies 
 Thy peerless haven glittering lies ; 
 
 From where o'er peasant-pastures rove 
 
 The flocks from which thy greatness sprang; 
 From vine-clad slope and orange grove : 
 
 From " grave mute wood " the Minstrel sang, 
 From Alpine peaks aglow with flush of mom. 
 Go forth to meet her, thou, the eldest bom. 
 
 From where, reverberant at thy feet. 
 The billows of two oceans meet; 
 
 From where the rocks thy treasures hide; 
 
 From mart and wharf, and harbour mouth; 
 From where the city of thy pride 
 Ennobles all the teeming South — 
 To meet her, there with loftiest zeal inflamed, 
 Go forth, Victoria, queen and queenly named. 
 
 171
 
 172 The Dominion 
 
 And thou, the youngest, yet most fair, 
 First to discern, and first to dare; 
 Whose lips sun-smitten earhest spoke 
 The herald-words of coming good, 
 And with their clarion summons broke 
 The slumber of the sisterhood — 
 Foremost of all thy peers press on to greet 
 Her advent, strewing flowers before her feet. 
 
 And thou, around whose brow benign 
 Vine-leaf and olive intertwine; 
 Upon whose victories the Star 
 
 Of Peace looks down with no rebuke, 
 The weapons of whose warfare are 
 
 The ploughshare and the pruning hook — 
 Take with thee gifts of com, and wine, and oil, 
 To greet thy liege with homage of the soil. 
 
 Thou, too, whom last the morning beams 
 Wake from thy sleep by peaceful streams, 
 Slow westering to the Indian main — 
 
 Thou, too, beneath thy later sun 
 Conspire with them in glad refrain 
 Of welcome to the coming one, 
 And from thy fragrant forests tribute bring 
 Of grateful incense for thine offering. 
 
 And thou, Pomona of the south. 
 Ruddy of cheek and ripe of mouth, 
 Who from thy couch of orchard bloom 
 With fearless foot are wont to stray 
 By mountain lakes, or in the gloom 
 Of forest depths unknown of day — 
 Be thy shrill greetings borne upon the breeze 
 Above the thunder of thy girdling seas. 
 
 Nor thou delay, who dwell'st apart, 
 To join thy peers with gladsome heart — 
 Whether the summons thee o'er take 
 
 On icy steep or fruitful plain. 
 Or where thy craggy bulwarks break 
 The onslaught of the warring main,
 
 Christmas Creek 173 
 
 Or find thee couched within some ferny lair, 
 Flax-flower and hyacinth mingling with thy hair. 
 
 Bind ye the sevenfold cord apace; 
 Weave ye the sevenfold wreath to grace 
 The brow of her whose avatar 
 
 The mighty mother waits to bless; 
 In sevenfold choir be borne afar 
 The music of your joyfulness. 
 Till o'er the world's disquiet your song prevail — 
 Australia Foederata! Hail! All hail! 
 
 Brunton Stephens. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CREEK 
 
 Phantom streams were in the distance — mocking lights of 
 
 lake and pool — 
 Ghosts of trees of soft green lustre — groves of shadows deep 
 
 and cool ! 
 Yea, some devil ran before them changing skies of brass to 
 
 blue, 
 Setting bloom where curse is planted, where a grass blade 
 
 never grew. 
 Six there were, and high above them glared a wild and wizened 
 
 sun. 
 Ninety leagues from where the waters of the singing valleys 
 
 run. 
 There before them, there behind them, was the great, stark, 
 
 stubborn plain, 
 Where the dry winds hiss for ever, and the blind earth moans 
 
 for rain ! 
 Ringed about by tracks of furnace, ninety leagues from 
 
 stream and tree, 
 Six there were with wasted faces, working northward to the 
 
 seal 
 
 • • • • • • , 
 
 Ah, the bitter, hopeless desert! Here these broken human 
 
 wrecks 
 Trod the wilds, where sand of fire is with the spiteful spinifex.
 
 174 Christmas Creek 
 
 Toiled through spheres that no bird knows of, where with 
 
 fiery emphasis 
 Hell hath stamped its awful mind-mark deep on everything 
 
 that is ! 
 Toiled and thirsted, strove and suffered! This was where 
 
 December's breath 
 As a wind of smiting flame is on weird, haggard wastes of 
 
 death ! 
 This was where a withered moon is, and the gleam of weak 
 
 wan star. 
 And a thunder full of menace sends its mighty voices far! 
 This was where black execrations, from some dark tribunal 
 
 hurled, 
 Set the brand of curse on all things in the morning of the 
 
 world ! 
 
 One man yielded — then another — then a lad of nineteen 
 
 years 
 Reeled and fell, — with English rivers singing softly in his 
 
 ears, 
 English grasses started round liim — then the grace of Sussex 
 
 Lea 
 Came and touched him with the beauty of a green land by 
 
 the sea! 
 Old world faces thronged about him — old world voices spoke 
 
 to him; 
 But his speech was like a whisper, and his eyes were very dim. 
 In a dream of golden evening, beaming on a quiet strand, 
 Lay the stranger till a bright One came and took him by the 
 
 hand. 
 England vanished, died the voices! but he heard a holier 
 
 tone, 
 And an angel that we know not led him to the lands 
 
 unknown ! 
 
 Six there were, but three were taken! three were left to 
 
 struggle still; 
 But against the red horizon flamed a horn of brindled hill ! 
 But beyond the northern skyline, past a wall of steep austere, 
 Lay the land of light and coolness in an April-coloured year !
 
 The Hut by the Black Swamp 175 
 
 "Courage, brothers!" cried the leader, "On the slope of 
 
 yonder peak 
 There are tracts of herb and shadow, and the channels of the 
 
 creek!" 
 So they made one last great effort — haled their breasts through 
 
 brake and briar — 
 Set their feet on spurs of furnace — grappled spikes and drags 
 
 of fire — 
 Fought the stubborn mountain forces, smote down naked, 
 
 natural powers, 
 Till they gazed from thrones of Morning on a sphere of 
 streams and flowers. 
 
 Out behind them was the desert, glaring like a sea of brass ! 
 Here before them were the valleys, fair with moonlight 
 
 coloured grass ! 
 At their backs were haggard waste-lands, bickering in a 
 
 wicked blaze ! 
 In their faces beamed the waters, marching down melodious 
 
 ways! 
 Touching was the cool, soft lustre over laps of lawn and lea; 
 And majestic was the great road Morning made across the 
 
 sea. 
 On the sacred day of Christmas, after seven months of grief, 
 Rested three of six who started, on a bank of moss and leaf — 
 Rested by a running river in a hushed, a holy week; 
 And they named the stream that saved them — named it 
 
 fitly — " Christmas Creek." 
 
 THE HUT BY THE BLACK SWAMP 
 
 Now comes the fierce north-easter — bound 
 About with clouds and racks of rain. 
 And dry dead leaves go whirling round 
 In rings of dust, and sigh like pain 
 Across the plain.
 
 176 The Hut by the Black Swamp 
 
 Now twilight, with a shadowy hand 
 Of wild dominionship, doth keep 
 Strong hold of hollow straits of land, 
 And watery sounds are loud and deep 
 By gap and steep. 
 
 Keen fitful gusts, that fly before 
 The wings of storm, when day hath shut 
 Its eyes on mountains, flaw by flaw 
 Pleet down, by whistling box-tree butt, 
 Against the hut. 
 
 And ringed and girt with lurid pomp, 
 Far eastern cliffs start up, and take 
 Thick, steaming vapours from a swamp 
 That iieth like a great blind lake, 
 Of face opaque; 
 
 The moss that, like a tender grief. 
 About an English ruin clings — 
 What time the wan autumnal leaf 
 Faints, after many wanderings 
 On windy wings — 
 
 That gracious growth — whose quiet green 
 Is as a love in days austere, 
 Was never seen — hath never been — 
 On slab or roof deserted here 
 For many a year. 
 
 Nor comes the bird whose speech is song- 
 Whose songs are silvery syllables 
 That unto glimmering woods belong, 
 And deep meandering mountain dells 
 By yellow wells. 
 
 But rather here the wild-dog halts. 
 And lifts the paw, and looks, and howls; 
 And here in ruined forest vaults, 
 Abide dim, dark, death-featured owls, 
 Like monks in cowls.
 
 The Hut by the Black Swamp 177 
 
 Across this hut the nettle runs, 
 And Hvid adders make their lair 
 In comers dank of suns, 
 And out of foetid furrows stare 
 The growths that scare. 
 
 Here Summer's grasp of fire is laid 
 On bank and slabs that rot, and breed 
 Squat ugly things of deadly shade. 
 The scorpion and the spiteful seed 
 Of centipede. 
 
 Unhallowed thunders, harsh and dry, 
 And flaming noontides, mute with heat 
 Beneath the breathless, brazen sky. 
 Upon these rifted rafters beat 
 With torrid feet: 
 
 And night by night the fitful gale 
 Doth carry past the bittern's boom. 
 The dingo's yell, the plover's wail, 
 While lumbering shadows start, and loom. 
 And hiss through gloom : 
 
 No sign of grace — no hope of green 
 Cool blossomed seasons mark the spot; 
 But chained to iron doom, I ween, 
 'Tis left like skeleton to rot 
 Where ruth is not. 
 
 For on this hut hath murder writ, 
 With bloody fingers, hellish things; 
 And God will never visit it 
 With flower or leaf of sweet-faced Springs, 
 On gentle wings.
 
 178 The Warrigal 
 
 THE ;^WARRIGAL (WILD DOG OF AUSTRALIA) 
 
 The warrigal's lair is pent in bare 
 
 Black rocks at the gorge's mouth; 
 
 It is set in ways, where summer strays 
 
 With the sprites of flame and drouth. 
 
 But when the heights are touched with lights 
 
 Of hoarfrost, sleet, and shime, 
 
 His bed is made of the dead grass-blade 
 
 And the leaves of the windy pine. 
 
 Through forest boles the storm-wind rolls, 
 
 Vex't of the sea-driv'n rain; 
 
 And up in the clift, through many a rift 
 
 The voices of torrents complain. 
 
 The sad march-fowl and the lonely owl 
 
 Are heard in the fog-wreaths grey, 
 
 When the warrigal wakes, and listens, and takes 
 
 To the woods that shelter the prey. 
 
 In the gully-deep the blind creek sleeps, 
 
 And the silver showery moon 
 
 Glides over the hills, and floats, and fills, 
 
 And dreams in the dark lagoon; 
 
 While halting hard by the station yard. 
 
 Aghast at the hut-flame nigh. 
 
 The warrigal yells and flats and fells 
 
 Are loud with his dismal cry. 
 
 On the topmost peak of the mountains bleak 
 
 The south wind sobs, and strays 
 
 Through moaning pine and turpentine, 
 
 And the rippling runnel ways; 
 
 And strong streams flow, and dank mists go, 
 
 Where the warrigal starts to hear 
 
 The watch-dog's hark break sharp in the dark, 
 
 And flees like a phantom of fear.
 
 After Many Years 179 
 
 AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 The song that once I dreamed about, 
 
 The tender, touching thing, 
 As radiant as the rose without. 
 
 The love of wind and wing; 
 The perfect verses, to the tune 
 
 Of woodland music set. 
 As beautiful as afternoon, 
 
 Remain unwritten yet. 
 
 It is too late to write them now — 
 
 The ancient fire is cold; 
 No ardent lights illume the brow, 
 
 As in the days of old. 
 I cannot dream the dream again; 
 
 But, when the happy birds 
 Are singing in the sunny rain, 
 
 I think I hear its words. 
 
 I think I hear the echo still 
 
 Of long-forgotten tones, 
 When evening winds are on the hill 
 
 And sunset fires the cones; 
 But only in the hours supreme, 
 
 With songs of land and sea, 
 The lyrics of the leaf and stream, 
 
 This echo comes to me. 
 
 No longer doth the earth reveal 
 
 Her gracious green and gold ; 
 I sit where youth was once, and feel 
 
 That I am growing old. 
 The lustre from the face of things 
 
 Is wearing all away; 
 Like one who halts with tired wings, 
 
 I rest and muse to-day. 
 
 There is a river in the range 
 
 I love to think about; 
 Perhaps the searching feet of change 
 
 Have never found it out*
 
 i8o After Many Years 
 
 Ah ! often-times I used to look 
 
 Upon its banks, and long 
 To steal the beauty of that brook 
 
 And put it in a song. 
 
 I wonder if the slopes of moss, 
 
 In dreams so dear to me — 
 The falls of flower, and flower-like floss — 
 
 Are as they used to be ! 
 I wonder if the waterfalls, 
 
 The singers far and fair, 
 That gleamed between the wet, green walls, 
 
 Are still the marvels there ! 
 
 Ah ! let me hope that in that place 
 
 Those old familiar things 
 To which I turn a wistful face 
 
 Have never taken wings. 
 Let me retain the fancy still 
 
 That, past the lordly range, 
 There always shines, in folds of hill, 
 
 One spot secure from change ! 
 
 I trust that yet the tender screen 
 
 That shades a certain nook 
 Remains, with all its gold and green. 
 
 The glory of the brook. 
 It hides a secret to the birds 
 
 And waters only known : 
 The letters of two lovely words — 
 
 A poem on a stone. 
 
 Perhaps the lady of the past 
 
 Upon these lines may light. 
 The purest verses, and the last. 
 
 That I may ever write: 
 She need not fear a word of blame: 
 
 Her tale the flowers keep — 
 The wind that heard me breathe her name 
 
 Has been for years asleep.
 
 With French to Kimberley i 8 i 
 
 But in the night, and when the rain 
 
 The troubled torrent fills, 
 I often think I see again 
 
 The river in the hills; 
 And when the day is very near, 
 
 And birds are on the wing, 
 My spirit fancies it can hear 
 
 The song I cannot sing. 
 
 Henry Kendall, 
 
 WITH FRENCH TO KIMBERLEY 
 
 The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim 
 
 gun; 
 The Boers were down on Kimberley their number ten to one I 
 Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle 
 
 good, 
 Defenceless in an open plain the diamond city stood. 
 They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from 
 
 roof and wall, 
 They flashed a message to the south: " Help! or the town 
 
 must fall ! " 
 And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, 
 For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 
 
 He made us march along the line; he made no front attack 
 Upon the Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen 
 
 back; 
 But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley, 
 Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. 
 The springbuck feeding on the flats where Modder river runs. 
 Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. 
 The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every 
 
 rocky wall 
 Rode back in haste: " He marches east ! He threatens Tacobs- 
 
 dal." 
 Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to 
 
 their dismay. 
 That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
 
 1 82 With French to Kimberley 
 
 His column was five thousand strong — all mounted men and 
 
 guns: 
 There met beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide 
 
 Empire's sons; 
 They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers 
 
 space, 
 And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British 
 
 race! 
 From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian 
 
 snows, 
 From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sun- 
 shine glows; 
 And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had 
 
 sent: 
 With easy stride across the plain the long lean Walers went. 
 Unknown, untried those squadrons were, but proudly out they 
 
 drew 
 Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo, 
 From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array, 
 To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 
 
 He crossed the Riet and fought his way towards the Modder 
 
 bank. 
 The foemen closed behind his march and hung upon his 
 
 flank, 
 The long drj^ grass was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs ; 
 He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around 
 
 the guns! 
 Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and 
 
 died; 
 We might not halt for man or beast on that wild daring ride. 
 Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed 
 
 the live-long day 
 Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 
 
 We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the 
 
 ford. 
 Next day from the hills around the Dutchman's cannons 
 
 roared. 
 A narrow pass between the hills with guns on either side; 
 The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he 
 
 tried,
 
 Saltbush Bill 183 
 
 For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone : 
 But French looked once, and only once, and then he said, 
 
 "Push on!" 
 The gunners plied their guns amain, the hail of shrapnel flew ; 
 With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadron back we 
 
 threw; 
 And through the pass between the hills we swept a furious 
 
 fray 
 And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers 
 
 away. 
 
 Ay, French was through to Kimberley ! And ere the day was 
 
 done 
 We saw the diamond city stand, lit by the evening sun: 
 Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: 
 Around the town the foemen camped — they knew not that we 
 
 came. 
 But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squad- 
 rons' tread; 
 In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled; 
 And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, 
 The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle- 
 rein. 
 The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, 
 The bells rang out a joyous peal to say " Relief is here! " 
 Ay ! We that saw that stirring march are proud that we can 
 
 say 
 We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 
 
 SALTBUSH BILL 
 
 Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West 
 obey, 
 
 A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a 
 day; 
 
 But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily under- 
 stood, 
 
 They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they 
 camp where the grass is good;
 
 184 Saltbush Bill 
 
 They camp and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a 
 
 blade remains^ 
 Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of 
 
 the saltbush plains, 
 From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand 
 
 to hand, 
 For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the 
 
 Overland. 
 For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in 
 
 white and black — 
 The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a 
 
 half-mile track; 
 And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where 
 
 the grass is dead, 
 But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go 
 
 with a two-mile spread. 
 So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall 
 
 of night, 
 And the squatter's dogs and the drover's dogs get mixed in a 
 
 deadly fight; 
 Yet the squatter's men, though they hunt the mob, are will- 
 ing the peace to keep. 
 For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go 
 
 with the travelling sheep; 
 But this is the tale of a Jackaroo ^ that came from a foreign 
 
 strand. 
 And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of 
 
 the Overland. 
 
 Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country 
 
 knew, 
 He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the 
 
 sea to the Big Barcoo; 
 He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him 
 
 a chance to spread, 
 And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his 
 
 sheep ahead; 
 He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that 
 
 could scarcely creep 
 (Where the kangaroos by the thousands starve, it is rough 
 
 on the travelling sheep), 
 
 * New chum, stranger.
 
 Saltbush Bill 185 
 
 And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge 
 
 of the Wilga run, 
 " We must manage a feed for them here," he said, " or the 
 
 half of the mob are done ! " 
 So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever 
 
 they liked to go. 
 Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow, 
 And they set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many 
 
 a stock whip crack 
 They forced them on where the grass was dead on the space 
 
 of the half-mile track; 
 So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly 
 
 strike him blue 
 But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of 
 
 that Jackaroo. 
 So he turned and he cursed the Jackaroo, he cursed him alive 
 
 or dead. 
 From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his 
 
 ugly head, 
 With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his 
 
 heels that ran. 
 Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and he went for the 
 
 drover-man; 
 With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep 
 
 ran loose the while, 
 They battled it out on the saltbush plain, in the regular prize- 
 ring style. 
 
 Now the new chum fought for his honour's sake, and the 
 
 pride of the English race. 
 But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his 
 
 bearded face; 
 So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it 
 
 a lengthy mill. 
 And from time to time as his scouts came on they whispered 
 
 to Saltbush Bill — 
 " We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the 
 
 grass it is something grand. 
 You must stick to him. Bill, for another round for the pride 
 
 of the Overland." 
 The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow 
 
 got home,
 
 1 86 The Sick Stockrider 
 
 Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the 
 
 brick-red loanij 
 Till the sheep drew into the shelter trees and settled them 
 
 down for rest, 
 Then the drover said he would fight no more and he gave his 
 
 opponent best. 
 So the new chum rode to the homestead straight and he told 
 
 them a story grand, 
 Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King 
 
 of the Overland, 
 And the tale went home to the public schools of the pluck of 
 
 the English swell, 
 How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end 
 
 must tell. 
 But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on 
 
 the old man's plain, 
 'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted 
 
 them off again. 
 With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse 
 
 and a stock whip crack. 
 They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on 
 
 the half-mile track; 
 And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite 
 How the best day's work that ever he did was the day that 
 
 he lost the fight. 
 
 A. B. Paterson. 
 
 THE SICK STOCKRIDER 
 
 Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in 
 the shade. 
 
 Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide 
 Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd. 
 
 All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride. 
 The dawn at " Moorabinda " was a mist rack dull and dense, 
 
 The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp; 
 I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence, 
 
 I was dreaming on the limestone cattle camp. 
 We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through 
 the haze,
 
 The Sick Stockrider 187 
 
 And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth; 
 To southward lay " Katavva " with the sand peaks all ablaze 
 
 And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north. 
 Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindis- 
 farne, 
 
 And yonder looms the double-headed Bluflf ; 
 From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and 
 calm, 
 
 You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough. 
 Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place 
 
 Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch; 
 'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase 
 
 Eight years ago — or was it nine? — last March. 
 
 'Twas merry in the glowing mom, among the gleaming grass, 
 
 To wander as we've wandered many a mile, 
 And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white 
 wreaths pass, 
 
 Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while. 
 'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station 
 roofs, 
 
 To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, 
 With a running fire of stock whips and a fiery run of hoofs ; 
 
 Ah ! the hardest day was never then too hard ! 
 
 Aye! we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his 
 gang, 
 When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat; 
 How the sun-dried reed beds crackled, how the flint-strewn 
 ranges rang 
 To the strokes of " Mountaineer " and " Acrobat." 
 Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath. 
 
 Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd; 
 And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled under- 
 neath ! 
 And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd ! 
 
 We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the 
 grey, 
 
 And the troopers were three hundred yards behind. 
 While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay. 
 
 In the creek with stunted box-trees for a blind !
 
 I 88 The Sick Stockrider 
 
 There you grappled with the leader, man to man and horse 
 to horse, 
 
 And you roU'd together when the chestnut rear'd; 
 He blaz'd away and missed you in that shallow water course — 
 
 A narrow shave — his powder singed your beard. 
 
 In these days when life is ebbing, how those days when life 
 was young 
 Come back to us; how clearly I recall 
 Even the yams Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem 
 Roper sang; 
 And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall? 
 
 Aye ! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school. 
 
 Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone; 
 Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule, 
 
 It seems that you and I are left alone. 
 There was Hughes who got in trouble through that business 
 with the cards. 
 
 It matters little what became of him; 
 But a steer ripped up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards. 
 
 And Sullivan was drowned at Sink-or-Swim ; 
 And Mostyn — poor Frank Mostyn — died at last a fearful 
 wreck 
 
 In " the horrors " at the upper Wandinong, 
 And Carisbrook, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck, 
 
 Faith ! The wonder was he saved his neck so long ! 
 
 Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' 
 in the glen — 
 
 The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead. 
 Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then; 
 
 And Ethel is a woman grown and wed. 
 
 I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil. 
 
 And Hfe is short — the longest life a span; 
 I care not now to tarry for the com or for the oil, 
 
 Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man. 
 For good undone and gifts mis-spent and resolutions vain, 
 
 'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know — 
 I should live the same life over, if I had to live again; 
 
 And the chances are I go where most men go.
 
 Wolf and Hound 189 
 
 The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow 
 dim, 
 The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall ; 
 And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim, 
 
 And on the very sun's face weave their pall. 
 Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms 
 wave, 
 With never stone or rail to fence my bed; 
 Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on 
 my grave, 
 I may chance to hear them romping overhead. 
 
 WOLF AND HOUND 
 
 " The hills like giants at a hunting lay, 
 Chin upon hand to see the game at bay." — Browning. 
 
 You'll take my tale with a little salt, 
 
 But it needs none, nevertheless; 
 I was foiled completely, fairly at fault, 
 
 Dishearten'd too, I confess. 
 At the splitters' tent I had seen the track 
 
 Of horsehoofs fresh on the sward. 
 And though Darby Lynch and Donovan Jack 
 
 (Who could swear through a ten-inch board) 
 Solemnly swore he had not been there, 
 
 I was just as sure that they lied, 
 For to Darby all that is foul was fair, 
 
 And Jack for his life was tried. 
 
 We had run him for seven miles and more 
 
 As hard as our nags could split ; 
 At the start they were all too weary and sore. 
 
 And his was quite fresh and fit. 
 Young Marsden's pony had had enough 
 
 On the plain, where the chase was hot; 
 We breasted the swell of the Bittern's Bluff, 
 
 And Mark couldn't raise a trot;
 
 190 Wolf and Hound 
 
 When the sea, like a splendid silver shield, 
 
 To the southward suddenly lay; 
 At the brow of the Beetle the chestnut reel'd, 
 
 And I bid good-bye to McCrea — 
 And I was alone when the mare fell lame. 
 
 With a pointed flint in her shoe, 
 On the stony flats; I had lost the game, 
 
 And what was a man to do ? 
 
 I turned away with no fixed intent 
 
 And headed for Hawthorn dell; 
 I could neither eat at the splitter's tent 
 
 Nor drink at the splitter's well; 
 I knew that they gloried in my mishap. 
 
 And I cursed them between my teeth — 
 A blood-red sunset through Brayton's gap 
 
 Flung a lurid fire on the heath. 
 
 Could I reach the dell? I had little reck, 
 
 And with scarce a choice of my own 
 I threw the reins on Miladi's neck — 
 
 I had freed her foot from the stone. 
 That season most of the swamps were dry, 
 
 And after so hard a burst 
 In the sultry noon of so hot a sky 
 
 She was keen to appease her thirst — 
 Or by instinct urged and impelled by fate — 
 
 I care not to solve these things — 
 Certain it was that she took me straight 
 
 To the Warrigal water springs. 
 
 I can shut my eyes and recall the ground 
 
 As though it were yesterday — 
 With a shelf of the bare grey rocks girt round. 
 
 The springs in their basin lay; 
 Woods to the east and wolds to the north 
 
 In the sundown sullenly bloomed ; 
 Dead black on a curtain of crimson cloth 
 
 Large peaks to the westward loomed. 
 I led Miladi through weed and sedge. 
 
 She leisurely drank her fill; 
 There was something close to the water's edge. 
 
 And my heart with one bound stood still.
 
 Wolf and Hound 191 
 
 For a horse's shoe and a rider's boot 
 
 Had left clean prints on the clay; 
 Some one had watered his beast on foot, 
 
 'Twas he, he had gone — Which way? 
 Then the mouth of the cavern faced me fair. 
 
 As I turned and fronted the rocks; 
 So at last I had pressed the wolf to his lair, 
 
 I had run to his earth the fox. 
 
 I thought so. Perhaps he was resting. Perhaps 
 
 He was waiting, watching for me. 
 I examined all my revolver caps, 
 
 I hitched my mare to a tree — 
 I had sworn to have him, alive or dead, 
 
 And to give him a chance was loth; 
 He knew his life had been forfeited — 
 
 He had even heard of my oath. 
 In my stockinged soles to the shelf I crept, 
 
 I crawled safe into the cave — 
 All silent — if he was there he slept; 
 
 Not there — all dark as the grave. 
 
 Through the crack I could hear the leaden hiss ! 
 
 See the livid face through the flame ! 
 How strange it seems that a man should miss 
 
 When his life depends on his aim ! 
 There couldn't have been a better light 
 
 For him, nor a worse for me. 
 We were cooped up, caged like beasts for a fight. 
 
 And dumb as dumb beasts were we. 
 
 Flash ! flash ! bang ! bang ! and we blazed away 
 
 And the grey roof reddened and rang; 
 Flash ! flash ! and I felt his bullet flay 
 
 The tip of my ear. Flash ! bang ! 
 Bang! flash! and my pistol arm fell broke; 
 
 I struck with my left hand then — 
 Struck at a corpse through a cloud of smoke — 
 
 I had shot him dead in his den !
 
 192 From the Wreck 
 
 FROM THE WRECK 
 
 " Turn out, boys! " — " What's up with our super to-night? 
 
 The man's mad — Two hours to daybreak I'd swear, 
 Stark mad — why there isn't a ghmmer of hght." 
 
 " Take Bohngbroke, Alec, give Jack the young mare. 
 Look sharp ! A large vessel lies jammed on the reef, 
 
 And many on board still, and some washed on shore. 
 Ride straight with the news — they may send some relief 
 
 From the township; and we, we can do little more. 
 You, Alec, you know the near cuts; you can cross 
 
 The " Sugar-loaf " ford with a scramble, I think; 
 Don't spare the blood filly, nor yet the black horse. 
 
 Should the wind rise, God help them! the ship will soon 
 sink. 
 Old Peter's away down the paddock, to drive 
 
 The nags to the stockyard as fast as he can — 
 A life and death matter; so, lads, look alive." 
 
 Half dress'd in the dark to the stockyard he ran. 
 
 There was bridling with hurry and saddling with haste, 
 
 Confusion and cursing for lack of a moon; 
 " Be quick with those buckles, we've no time to waste." 
 
 " Mind the mare; she can use her hind legs to some tune." 
 " Make sure of the crossing place: strike the old track. 
 
 They've fenced off the new one; look out for the holes 
 On the wombat hills." " Down with the slip rails. Stand 
 back! 
 
 And ride, boys, the pair of you, ride for your souls." 
 
 In the low branches heavily laden with dew, 
 
 In the long grasses spoiling with dead wood that day. 
 Where the blackwood, the box, and the bastard oak grew 
 
 Between the tall gum trees we galloped away — 
 We crashed through a bush fence, we splashed through a 
 swamp — 
 
 We steered for the north, near " The Eagle-hawk's Nest." 
 We bore to the left; just beyond " the Red camp," 
 
 And round the black tea-tree belt wheel'd to the west —
 
 From the Wreck 193 
 
 We crossed a low range sickly scented with musk 
 
 From wattle-tree blossom — we skirted a marsh — 
 Then the dawn faintly dappled with orange the dusk, 
 
 And peal'd overhead the jay's laughter note harsh, 
 And shot the first sunstreak behind us, and soon 
 
 The dim dewy uplands were dreamy with light. 
 And full on our left flash'd " The Reedy Lagoon," 
 
 And sharply " The Sugar-loaf " reared on our right. 
 A smothered curse broke through the bushman's brown beard. 
 
 He turned in his saddle, his brick-colour'd cheek 
 Flush'd feebly with sundawn, said, " Just what I feared. 
 
 Last fortnight's late rainfall has flooded the creek." 
 
 Black Bolingbroke snorted, and stood on the brink 
 
 One instant, then deep in the dark sluggish swirl 
 Plunged headlong. I saw the horse suddenly sink 
 
 Till round the man's armpits the waves seemed to curl. 
 We followed — one cold shock, and deeper we sank 
 
 Than they did, and twice tried the landing in vain, 
 The third struggle won it; straight up the steep bank 
 
 We stagger'd, then out on the skirts of the plain. 
 
 The stockrider. Alec, at starting had got 
 
 The lead, and had kept it throughout; 'twas his boast 
 That through thickest of scrub he could steer like a shot, 
 
 And the black horse was counted the best on the coast. 
 The mare had been awkward enough in the dark 
 
 She was eager and headstrong, and barely half broke; 
 She had had me too close to a big stringy-bark, 
 
 And had made a near thing of a crooked she oak; 
 But now on the open lit up by the mom, 
 
 She flung the fleecy white foam-flakes from nostril to neck, 
 And chased him — I hatless, with shirt sleeves all torn 
 
 (For he may ride ragged who rides from a wreck) — 
 And faster and faster across the wide heath 
 
 We rode till we raced. Then I gave her her head, 
 And she — stretching out with the bit in her teeth — 
 
 She caught him, outpaced him, and passed him, and led. 
 We neared the new fence; we were wide of the track; 
 
 I looked right and left — she had never been tried 
 At a stiff leap. 'Twas httle he cared on the black. 
 
 " You're more than a mile from the gateway," he cried, 
 
 N
 
 194 From the Wreck 
 
 I clung to her head^ touched her flank with the spurs, 
 
 (In the red streak of rail not the ghost of a gap), 
 She shortened her long stroke, she pricked her sharp ears, 
 
 She flung it behind her with hardly a rap — 
 I saw the post quiver where Bolingbroke struck, 
 
 And guessed the pace we had come the last mile 
 Had blown him a bit (he could jump like a buck). 
 
 We galloped more steadily then for a while. 
 
 The heath was soon pass'd, in the dim distance lay 
 
 The mountain. The sun was clearing the tips 
 Of the ranges to eastward. The mare — could she stay? 
 
 She was bred very nearly as clean as Eclipse: 
 She led, and as oft as he came to her side, 
 
 She took the bit free and untiring as yet; 
 Her neck was arched double, her nostrils were wide 
 
 And the tips of her tapering ears nearly met — 
 " You're lighter than I am," said Alec at last, 
 
 The horse is dead beat and the mare isn't blown. 
 She must be a good one — ride on and ride fast. 
 
 You know your way now." So I rode on alone. 
 
 Still galloping forward we pass'd the two flocks 
 
 At Mclntyre's hut and McAllister's hill — 
 She was galloping strong at the Warrigal Rocks — 
 
 On the Wallaby Range she was galloping still — 
 And over the wasteland and under the wood, 
 
 By down and by dale, and by fell and by flat, 
 She gallop'd, and here in the stirrup I stood 
 
 To ease her and there in the saddle I sat 
 To steer her. We suddenly struck the red loam 
 
 Of the track near the troughs — then she reeled on the rise- 
 From her crest to her croup covered over with foam. 
 
 And blood-red her nostrils and bloodshot her eyes, 
 A dip in the dell where the wattle fire bloomed — 
 
 A bend round the bank that had shut out the view — 
 Large framed in the mild light the mountain had loom'd 
 
 With a tall purple peak bursting out from the blue. 
 
 I pull'd her together, I press'd her and she 
 
 Shot down the decline to the Company's yard. 
 
 And on by the paddocks, yet under my knee 
 
 I could feel her heart thumping the saddle flaps hard.
 
 Whisperings in Wattle Boughs 195 
 
 Yet a mile and another and now we were near 
 
 The goal, and the fields and farms flitted past;, 
 And 'twixt the two fences I turned with a cheer, 
 And labourers, roused by her galloping hoofs, 
 
 Saw bare-headed rider and foam-sheeted steed ; 
 And shone the white walls and the slate-covered roofs 
 
 Of the township. I steadied her then — I had need — 
 Where stood the old chapel (where stands the new church — 
 
 Since chapels to churches have changed in that town), 
 A short sidelong stagger, a long forward lurch, 
 
 A slight choking sob, and the mare had gone down. 
 I slipped off the bridle, I slackened the girth, 
 
 I ran on and left her and told them my news; 
 I saw her soon afterwards. What was she worth? 
 
 How much for her hide? She had never worn shoes. 
 
 WHISPERINGS IN WATTLE BOUGHS 
 
 Oh, gaily sings the bird ! and the wattle boughs are stirr'd 
 And rustled by the scented breath of spring; 
 Oh, the dreary wistful longing ! Oh, the faces that are throng- 
 ing! 
 Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering ! 
 
 Oh, tell me, father mine, ere the good ship cross'd the 
 
 brine. 
 On the gangway one mute hand-grip we exchang'd. 
 Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn, reckless 
 
 boy, 
 Those petitions that in hfe were ne'er estrang'd? 
 
 Oh, tell me, sister dear, parting word and parting tear 
 
 Never pass'd between us; — let me bear the blame. 
 
 Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I've 
 
 shed 
 For the lips that lisp'd with mine a mother's name.
 
 I 96 Hearts of Gold 
 
 Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend. 
 
 In our boyhood, at the base of life's long hill. 
 
 Are you working yet or sleeping? Have you left this vale of 
 
 weeping? 
 Or do you, like your comrade, linger still? 
 
 Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above? — 
 
 There is little hope or comfort here below; — 
 
 On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is straight 
 
 and cold — 
 Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow. 
 
 All silent — they are dumb — and the breezes go and come 
 With an apathy that mocks at man's distress; 
 Laugh, scoffer, while you may ! I could bow me down and pray 
 For an answer that might stay my bitterness. 
 
 Oh, harshly screams the bird; and the wattle-bloom is stirr'd. 
 There's a sullen wend-hke whisper in the bough: 
 " Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but His beloved sleep 
 Can never be disturb'd by such as thou! " 
 
 A. Lindsay Gordon. 
 
 HEARTS OF GOLD 
 
 Though poets have not yet sung you 
 Nor writers your true worth told, 
 
 I, who have wrought among you, 
 I know you for Hearts of Gold I 
 
 Toiling with shovel and dray. 
 
 With reaper and harrow and drill, 
 For the old folks wrinkled and gray 
 
 In the old home under the hill; 
 Brave, broad-shouldered, and brown, 
 
 With the width of the world to roam. 
 Staying to battle a mortgage down 
 
 That a mother may keep her home. . . . 
 Hearts of Gold 1 O, Hearts of Gold !
 
 Hearts of Gold 197 
 
 Toiling out on the blue-grass plains 
 
 With plunging leaders and ringing chains; 
 
 Working early and working late 
 
 To the click of the dusty drafting gate; 
 
 Steadying ponies scared and wild: 
 All for a mother, a wife, a child. . . . 
 
 Hearts of Gold ! 0, Hearts of Gold ! 
 
 Out in the scorching pitiless sun 
 
 Under the reeling, rocky sky, 
 With a comrade gasping, " Mate, I'm done ! " 
 Making the last two drinks in one 
 
 Lest a good, true mate should die. . . . 
 
 Hearts of Gold ! 0, Hearts of Gold ! 
 
 Lending your arms when the floods are down, 
 
 Lest a neighbour's stock in the dark should drown; 
 
 Sweating with green boughs, turn and turn, 
 
 Lest a neighbour's crop in the night should bum; 
 
 Riding the hills at the risk of life 
 
 For a doctor's aid for a neighbour's wife. . . . 
 Hearts of Gold ! 0, Hearts of Gold ! 
 
 Men who have ridden all day, 
 
 Hungry and saddle sore, 
 Snatching a morsel and riding away 
 
 Maybe for ten hours more, 
 In the lined advance, 
 
 That the range may give 
 One more faint chance 
 
 To a child to live. . . . 
 
 Hearts of Gold! 0, Hearts of Gold! 
 
 Women alone in the Bush, 
 
 Mothers and wives, 
 Keeping your guard in the weird night-hush 
 
 Over the sleeping lives; 
 In woe or weal 
 
 Staunch and fond. 
 True as steel 
 
 To the marriage bond. . . . 
 
 Hearts of Gold ! O, Hearts of Gold !
 
 98 The Mails 
 
 Fighting the fires and floods and drought, 
 The nights of terror and days of doubt, 
 Shifting the outposts farther out. . . . 
 
 Hearts of Gold ! 0, Hearts of Gold ! 
 
 Facing your fate as the years go by 
 With a hidden grief and a silent cry, 
 Dying gamely as bull-dogs die. . . . 
 
 Hearts of Gold ! 0, Hearts of Gold ! 
 
 By the trouble that will never tame you, 
 By the toil that will never withhold, 
 
 Whatever the dull ivorld name you 
 I know you for Hearts of Gold ! 
 
 Will Ogilvie. 
 
 THE MAILS 
 
 The tail rods leap in their bearings, 
 
 They rise with a rush and a ring ; 
 They sink to the sound of laughter. 
 And hurried and short they sing — 
 We carry the Mails — 
 His Majesty's Mails — 
 Make way for the mails of the king I 
 
 We've swung her head for the open bay, 
 
 And, spun by the prisoned steam. 
 The screws are drumming the miles away 
 
 Where the Ught star-shadows dream. 
 She lifts and sways to the ocean swell — 
 
 The lighthouse glares on high. 
 And the fisher lads in the boats will tell 
 
 How they saw the mail go by; 
 A-thrill from keel to her quiv'ring spars — 
 
 With the screw-foam boiling white, 
 And black smoke dimming the watching stars. 
 
 As she soared through the soundless night. 
 " Full speed ahead! " shout the racing rods — 
 
 " Full speed! " and spray on the rail! 
 We'll heed no order to stop save God's, 
 
 For we are the Ocean Mail,
 
 The Mails 199 
 
 The log fish shudder to hear the thud 
 
 And stamp of our engine room, 
 As we thunder on with our decks aflood 
 
 Through the bhnd bewildering gloom, 
 A faint hoarse hail, and a warning light, 
 
 The whirr of our steering gear, 
 And we are staggering in our flight 
 
 With a fishing boat just clear. 
 We carry the wealth of the world I trow. 
 
 And the power and fame of men — 
 The angry word, and the lover's vow. 
 
 All held to the turn of a pen. 
 And stars swing out in the skies athrill. 
 
 And the weary stars grow pale ; 
 But night and day we are driving still 
 
 For we are the Ocean Mail. 
 
 The sailing craft and the clumsy tramps 
 
 Loom up and are lost astern. 
 And the stars of their bridge and mast-head lamps 
 
 Are the only stars that bum. 
 To the clash and ring of the whirling steel. 
 
 And the crash and swing of the seas. 
 We carry the grief that the mothers feel 
 
 As they sob and pray on their knees. 
 The cares and joys of the throbbing world 
 
 Are measured in piston-strokes, 
 When the bright prow-smother is split and hurled 
 
 And the hot wake steams and smokes, 
 To the surging blows of the heavy throws. 
 
 And the slide-valves' moaning wail. 
 We'll swing and soar with our flues a-roar, 
 
 For we are the Ocean Mail. 
 
 They watch for us at the harbour-mouth, 
 
 And wait for us on the quay, 
 Looking ever to East and South 
 
 For our head-light on the sea. 
 And onward, surging, we're racing fast 
 
 Where the shy mermaiden dwells. 
 And the crested kings of the deep ride past — 
 
 (Oh ! the pomp of the rolling swells).
 
 200 When the Guns go into Battle 
 
 Some lighthouse-men when they see our star 
 
 Lift clear of the starry maze, 
 Will watch us swagger across the bar 
 
 And swing to the channelled ways, 
 Yet never a sign or a sound we give — 
 
 No blast of horn or a hail — 
 For we must race that the world may live, 
 
 And we are the Ocean Mail. 
 
 The good screws labouring under, 
 
 Laugh loud as they lift and fling 
 The eddying foam behind them, 
 And muttering low they sing — 
 Make way for the Mails — 
 His Majesty's Mails — 
 We carry the mails for the king. 
 
 WHEN THE GUNS GO INTO BATTLE 
 
 With Death on the off-side lead, 
 
 And Duty stern on the limber, 
 The men of the British breed 
 
 Strain sinews, steel, and timber. 
 With jangling bar and trace, 
 
 And trail-eyes all a rattle, 
 The guns rush thundering in the race. 
 Where " last gun in " is a sore disgrace: 
 For the drivers drive at a reckless pace 
 
 When the guns go into battle. 
 
 See them breasting the rise. 
 
 With trace a-sweat and steaming, 
 Till the white hot lather flies 
 
 And the axles roar complaining ! 
 Clatter 1 Bump ! Bang ! They come 
 
 Galloping hard on the level — 
 Never a note of fife or drum — 
 Only the whirr of the wheels that hum, 
 (The fearless winds from the hills crouch dumb 
 
 When the guns crash on to the revel).
 
 When the Guns go into Battle 201 
 
 The hard-drawn trace-chains twang 
 
 And the trace-hooks grip and rattle, 
 The hammering trail-eyes bang 
 
 When the guns go into battle. 
 The drivers urge their teams 
 
 With whip and speer and curses . . . 
 A gun on the foot-hills glints and gleams — 
 A flashing roar ! And a shot horse screams — 
 I have dreamed what I see, in horrid dreams 
 
 Which the morning light disperses. 
 
 They have loosed the shot horse out, 
 
 And left a gunner groaning. 
 They are off with never a doubt 
 
 Where the long death-song is moaning. 
 The limbers leap and sway 
 
 To the pole-bars' noisy banging — 
 One horse's breath is a crimson spray. 
 But he shakes his head and pegs away. 
 For he does not want his mates to say 
 
 They saw his short-trace hanging. 
 
 Oh ! hear the riotous beat 
 
 Of racing hoofs on the gravel — 
 You can judge from their flashing feet 
 
 'Tis their utmost pace they travel. 
 The linch-pins clatter and ring — 
 
 The harness strains and shivers, 
 Each driver then is a battle-king; 
 Each leaping gun a living thing. 
 And the war-god's song their stout hearts sing, 
 
 Tho' maybe a boy's lip quivers. 
 
 They're reining the right-flank team — 
 
 The centre driver is falling, 
 By his life-blood's pulsing stream 
 
 His last reveille's calhng. 
 But a comrade takes his place. 
 
 And so, with scarce a falter. 
 The gun is off again in the race, 
 When " last gun in " is a sore disgrace. 
 Oh! the British drivers' rollicking pace 
 
 Is a pace that nothing can alter.
 
 202 When the Guns go into Battle 
 
 To the firing line they sweep! 
 
 Then — " Action Front " — and swiftly 
 The active gunners leap, 
 
 And the gun's unlimbered deftly. 
 The limber goes; it's " Waggon Supply; " 
 
 The brass-capped shell is handed 
 From waggon to trail ; and the strong hands ply 
 To many a jest and quick reply, 
 While the shells rush past with a shriek or sigh, 
 
 And the earth lifts where they landed. 
 
 Arms signal " Shot! " And the range? 
 
 " Eighteen hundred, with fuse seven! " 
 Ah ! the men at the trails will change 
 
 As their bellowing guns shake heaven; 
 For, steadily spitting hate. 
 
 The rifle-bullets find them — 
 One moves too soon, and one too late, 
 When the tough spades lift the spent gun's weight. 
 Yet steady the fight, and grim the fate. 
 
 Though the grime and the sweat-streams blind them. 
 
 With Death on the off-side lead, 
 
 And Duty stern on the near one, 
 The men of the fighting breed 
 
 Ride in where the hot shells sear one. 
 With jangling bar and trace. 
 
 And fast big-hearted cattle. 
 The guns go thundering in the race 
 Where " last gun in " is a sore disgrace; 
 Oh ! the drivers drive at a madman's pace 
 
 When the guns go into battle.
 
 The Cattle Boats 203 
 
 THE CATTLE BOATS 
 
 Four weeks from Monte Video, 
 And sights that few Men sees — 
 
 A-prayin' that the clouds will blow 
 A healthy spankin' breeze; 
 
 With glass a-showin\ down below, 
 A hundred odd degrees. 
 
 When God made out His shippin'-notes 
 
 And sent this world to sea, 
 He must have missed the cattle-boats 
 
 And cattle-men like me, 
 He meant all farms to be ashore, 
 
 Not sailin' full and by 
 With chokin' bullocks sweatin' gore 
 
 And layin' down to die. 
 He didn't authorise that hells 
 
 Should wander on His seas, 
 A-liftin' to the swingin' swells — 
 
 Such reekin' hells as these. 
 That squatter out and tumble in 
 
 To be the shippers' gain. 
 With cattle-keepers spoutin' sin, 
 
 And cattle mad with pain. 
 
 The sharks they slink around our flanks- 
 
 The sharks are very wise; 
 And oh I they love the cattle tanks 
 
 And every beast that dies. 
 
 We ships 'em at the River Plate, 
 
 And from the States they come, 
 With bleedin' horns and starin' hate — 
 
 Thank God the brutes are dumb ! 
 We rig up win's'ls so's to try 
 
 And purify the air; 
 So if they go and drop and die. 
 
 That isn't our affair. 
 The stokers sometimes feel that God 
 
 Is workin' wonders near,
 
 204 The Cattle Boats 
 
 A-strengthenin' a fractured rod 
 
 That's fightin' Death and Fear. 
 But hoistin' up the dead and maimed 
 
 And dodgin' every roll, 
 A man might doubt, nor be ashamed 
 
 If he has got a soul. 
 
 The sharks they fight a bit, and then 
 
 They swim a-grinnin' by — 
 Instead of beasts it might be me7i I 
 
 And oh 1 them sharks are sly. 
 
 We ain't in Heaven's shippin'-notes, 
 
 And God don't surely know 
 That such dam things as cattle-boats 
 
 Are tradin' to and fro — 
 A plungin' till their stock is piled 
 
 In heaps all blood and hair, 
 And men are killed, to put it mild, 
 
 For facin' Death too fair. 
 The coal-ships most are bound for where 
 
 Good coal is rulin' high; 
 The liner's dinner-bugles blare; 
 
 She swaggers stately by, 
 With passengers a-suckin' hard 
 
 At pipes and strong cigars: 
 They seem to know a cattle-yard — 
 
 It must be by our spars. 
 
 Pass round that chain 1 No7v, easy ! Oh, 
 What cheerful tasks are these — 
 
 A-liftin' dead-uns from below 
 And pray in' for a breeze. 
 
 God didn't mean that Hell should go 
 A-howlin' on His seas. 
 
 Will Lawson.
 
 The Christ of the " Never " 205 
 
 THE CHRIST OF THE " NEVER " 
 
 With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce 
 
 To the awful horizons of land, 
 Through the haze of hot days, and the fierce 
 
 White heat-waves that flow on the sand; 
 Through the Never Land westward and nor'ward, 
 
 Bronzed, bearded, and gaunt on the track, 
 Quiet-voiced and hard-knuckled, rides forward 
 
 The Christ of the Outer Out-back. 
 
 For the cause that will ne'er be relinquished 
 
 Spite of all the great cynics on earth — 
 In the ranks of the bush undistinguished 
 
 By manner or dress — if by birth — 
 God's preacher of churches unheeded — 
 
 God's vineyard though barren the sod — 
 Plain spokesman when spokesman is needed — 
 
 Rough link 'twixt the bushman and God. 
 
 He works where the hearts of all nations 
 
 Are withered in flame from the sky. 
 Where the sinners work out their salvations 
 
 In a hell-upon-earth ere they die. 
 In the camp or the lonely hut lying 
 
 In a waste that seems out of God's sight. 
 He's the doctor — the mate of the dying 
 
 Through the smothering heat of the night. 
 
 By his work in the hells of the shearers. 
 
 Where the drinking is ghastly and grim, 
 Where the roughest and worst of his hearers 
 
 Have hstened bare-headed to him. 
 By his paths through the parched desolation, 
 
 His rides and the terrible tramps; 
 By the hunger, the thirst, the privation 
 
 Of his work on the furthermost camps; 
 By his worth in the light that shall search men 
 
 And prove — ay! and justify each — 
 I place him in front of all churchmen 
 
 Who feel not, who know not, but preach. 
 
 Henry Lawson.
 
 2o6 Camp Fire Musings 
 
 CAMP FIRE MUSINGS 
 
 I 
 
 The camp fire plays upon the trees 
 
 In waves of warm caressin' light, 
 
 And on the mild and scented breeze 
 
 Come all the whispers of the night, 
 
 And now and then the dead leaves fall 
 
 With just a rustle soft and low, 
 But what's the meanin' of it all, 
 I dunno! 
 
 II 
 
 From all around me I can hear 
 The sounds of things that live and die, 
 
 And now and then from somewhere near 
 The curlew's sad and hauntin' cry. 
 
 Whilst near the fire here I sprawl, 
 With thoughts that ever come and go. 
 
 But what's the meanin' of it all, 
 I dunno! 
 
 Ill 
 There's such a lot of things that seem 
 
 Beyond the range of human ken. 
 The moon that shines, the stars that gleam, 
 
 The sun that warms the heart o' men. 
 The laugh that cheers, the tears that fall, 
 
 The joys and grief that come and go, 
 But what's the meanin' of 'em all, 
 I dunno! 
 
 IV 
 
 One hears again and yet again 
 
 Of what a fellah ought to be. 
 But still it don't seem very plain. 
 
 Leastways, it don't seem so to me; 
 I s'pose the watchword " Duty's Call " 
 
 Should mark the road one has to go, 
 But what one's duty is at all, 
 I dunno !
 
 Camp Fire Musings 207 
 
 It's hard to mind what preachers say: 
 
 Give unto every man his due^ 
 And always act in such a way 
 
 As you would have men act to you ! 
 If any man with greedy lust 
 
 Tries hard to score and lay you low, 
 
 Well, ain't it right to " have " him fust? 
 
 I dunno! 
 
 VI 
 
 I s'pose for some the path of life 
 Lies smooth and easy as they tread, 
 
 For others there's the storm and strife 
 And dark clouds frownin' overhead; 
 
 No wonder that we trip and fall 
 Or at the best go very slow, 
 
 And what's the meanin' of it all, 
 I dunno! 
 
 VII 
 
 The good old bush is pretty rough, 
 And when my spirits fade and die 
 
 I sometimes think I've had enough. 
 It seems no sort o' use to try ; 
 
 The mornin's break, the evenin's fall, 
 And I — well, what have I to show? 
 
 Can man e'er dare to hope at all? 
 I dunno. 
 
 VIII 
 
 And yet as on my back I lie 
 
 And watch the bright stars gleamin' there, 
 I fancy that beyond the sky 
 
 Must be a land where doubt and care 
 Have no more power to enthral, 
 
 A land where tired spirits go 
 To rest in peace, forgettin' all! 
 I dunno!
 
 2o8 The Stockrider 
 
 THE STOCKlllDER 
 
 Long and lean and wiry, 
 
 Hollow-cheeked and brown, 
 Bushbred and he stays there, 
 
 Wants no bloomin' town; 
 Got no city manners, 
 
 Couldn't if he tried ! 
 Watch him in the saddle. 
 
 See the beggar ride ! 
 
 Hear him telling stories, 
 
 Yams of long ago ; 
 See him with the children 
 
 Laughing soft and low. 
 Just a great big baby. 
 
 Mouth all gaping wide, 
 Fetch along a raw 'un 
 
 See the beggar ride ! 
 
 Watch his big eyes moisten 
 
 Then light up with fun, 
 Reading verses writ by 
 
 Bartie Paterson. 
 Swears by good old Bartie, 
 
 'Way down Sydney side, 
 Says he knows the biz'ness 
 
 He knows how to ride — 
 
 Hear the beggar singing 
 
 Songs of dreadful woe, 
 Telling how his mother 
 
 Left him long ago ; 
 Hear his cracked voice shaking, 
 
 Droning how she died; 
 Stop the beggar squalking. 
 
 Shove him up to ride ! 
 
 Watch him after cattle, 
 When there's work to do,
 
 The Stockrider 
 
 Mother, home, forgotten 
 Tea and damper too! 
 
 See his white teeth gleaming, 
 Taking in his stride 
 
 Rocks and fallen timber, 
 Lord, to see him ride! 
 
 Mark the maddened brumby 
 
 Bucking all he knows; 
 See the grim-faced rider 
 
 Blood from ears to nose; 
 Never yet buck-jumper 
 
 Bound in hair and hide 
 Knows the trick to shift him ! 
 
 Gosh, to see him ride ! 
 
 Hear him on the ranges 
 
 Make the stock whip crack, 
 Racing down the gullies 
 
 Straight to hell and back. 
 Hear the flint stones rattle 
 
 Down the mountain side. 
 Hold your breath and wonder- 
 
 That's the way to ride. 
 
 Talk of yelling Cossack 
 
 Riding on his head I 
 See the thing he rests on, 
 
 Bloomin' four-post bed! 
 Clever tricks for children ! 
 
 That can't be denied; 
 Send him to Australia, 
 
 There he'll learn to ride ! 
 
 Just a stalwart giant 
 
 Standing six foot two, 
 Simple as a baby. 
 
 Loyal, staunch, and true; 
 Put him in the saddle. 
 
 Hear the world decide, 
 " Hats off to the master, 
 
 He's the boy to ride." 
 
 209
 
 2IO The Water-Bellow 
 
 THE WATER-BELLOW 
 
 I 
 
 Twenty miles to travel 
 
 Through tangled scrub and rock, 
 Twenty miles to travel 
 
 And mostl}' all the Stock 
 Comprised of sickly heifers 
 
 With sickly calves at heel, 
 Well, sonny, you can fancy 
 
 Exactly how I feel! 
 
 II 
 
 Twenty miles to travel ! 
 
 I'd call it easy quite 
 If we could camp till ev'ning 
 
 And take the road at night. 
 But in this rocky country 
 
 One has to go by day. 
 And guard the beasts at night-time, 
 
 Or else they're bound to stray. 
 
 in 
 Yes, now they're going nicely, 
 
 I wish that it would last, 
 But out across the sand-hills. 
 
 The sun is rising fast. 
 The heat will soon be awful 
 
 The dust be something worse. 
 And added to our troubles 
 
 The want of water curse ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Just mark those weary heifers 
 
 And note their heaving flanks, 
 We'll have a job, my sonny. 
 
 To keep them in the ranks; 
 And look too at the leaders. 
 
 Observe their artful knack 
 Of stringing out for water. 
 
 Just turn and ride them back!
 
 The Water-Bellow 2 1 1 
 
 Ah ! now you know what heat is, 
 
 The sun's just blazing down, 
 You'll have a yarn to tell 'em 
 
 When you get back to town, 
 Of how with cattle dying 
 
 You, in your manhood strong. 
 Just proudly rode among 'em 
 
 And flogged the brutes along! 
 
 IV 
 
 Yes — flogged 'em! Lord, it's awful. 
 
 And makes me sick with shame, 
 I mean to chuck it, sonny. 
 
 And you can do the same — 
 We'll follow them on foot, lad. 
 
 And see what we can do 
 By driving them with branches. 
 
 Perchance we'll get them through. 
 
 VII 
 
 Perchance we'll get them through, lad, 
 
 Well, we can only try, 
 But half of them look ready 
 
 To settle down and die — 
 Ah, see that brindled heifer 
 
 Just give your whip full play. 
 She's down, but has the cunning 
 
 To try to slip away! 
 
 VIII 
 
 Another mile — Good Heavens! 
 
 Why what is that I hear? 
 Yes — there it is again, lad, 
 
 Like music on the ear: 
 The " water-bellow," sonny. 
 
 As sure as eggs is eggs, 
 D'ye see that stumbling heifer 
 
 Rise up upon her legs.
 
 212 The Water-Bellow 
 
 IX 
 
 Just listen to the crooning 
 
 That's passing thro' the lanks, 
 D'ye see their eyeballs flaming, 
 
 D'ye note their heaving flanks, 
 The leaders in the vanguard 
 
 Have passed the word along, 
 They sniff the water, sonny, 
 
 And that's their joyful song. 
 
 Great Scott, it acts like magic, 
 
 They're going at the run. 
 We'll have to ride like blazes 
 
 And see what can be done 
 To steady them a trifle, 
 
 Or else it will be found 
 That in the mad confusion 
 
 Some hundreds will be drowned. 
 
 XI 
 
 Too late ! they're mad for water 
 
 And naught can hold them back. 
 You needn't fuss or worry 
 
 To make your stock whip crack. 
 They mean to get there, sonny, 
 
 Despite what we can do, 
 So we must sit and pray, lad, 
 
 That half come safely through! 
 
 XII 
 
 D'ye see the water seething, 
 
 As in the leaders burst. 
 It must be simply gorgeous 
 
 To quench so great a thirst! 
 Just listen to their roaring, 
 
 The gruntings and the din. 
 Let's pray they finish, sonny, 
 
 Before the calves get in.
 
 Romance 213 
 
 XIII 
 
 Hurrah ! they're crawhng out, lad, 
 
 The calves can have their turn, 
 Ah ! there they go, my sonny. 
 
 See how the waters chum. 
 Thank God, the danger's over 
 
 And on the other side 
 We'll muster without losing 
 
 A single bloomin' hide, 
 
 XIV 
 
 Well, now you see what happens 
 
 And know the sort o' job 
 A man has got to tackle 
 
 When trav'lling with a mob; 
 Phew! pass the bacca, sonny, 
 
 The sun is dropping down ; 
 Gad, there's a yarn to tell 'em 
 
 When you get back to town. 
 
 Guy Eden. 
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 They say that fair Romance is dead, and in her cold grave 
 
 lying low. 
 The green grass waving o'er her head, the mould upon her 
 
 breast of snow; 
 Her voice, they say, is dumb for aye, that once was clarion 
 
 — clear and high — 
 But in their hearts, their frozen hearts, they know that 
 
 bitterly they lie. 
 
 Her brow of white, that was with bright rose-garland in the 
 
 old days crowned, 
 Is now, they say, all shorn of light, and with a fatal fillet 
 
 bound. 
 Her eyes divine no more shall shine to lead the hardy Knight' 
 
 and good 
 Unto the Castle Perilous, beyond the dark Enchanted Wood.
 
 2 14 Romance 
 
 And do they deem, these fools supreme, whose iron wheels 
 unceasing whirr, 
 
 That, in their rushing age of Steam, there is no longer room 
 for Her? 
 
 That, as they hold the key of gold, that shuts or opens Mam- 
 mon's Den, 
 
 Romance has vanished from the earth and left the homes and 
 hearts of men? 
 
 Yea, some there be who fain would see this consummation 
 
 drear. 
 And set their God Machinery with iron rod to rule the year. 
 They get their way, day after day, with fonvard-staring 
 
 famished eyes. 
 Whose level glances never stray — fixed fast upon a sordid 
 
 prize ! 
 
 The sun may rise in god-like guise, the stars like burningseraphs 
 
 shine. 
 But ah, for those sad souls unwise, nor Earth nor Heaven 
 
 bears a sign. 
 All visions fair, in earth or air, they gaze upon with sullen 
 
 scorn. 
 God knows His own great business best; He only knows why 
 
 they were born. 
 
 They never saw, with sacred awe, the Vision of the Starry 
 
 Stream, 
 That is the source of Love and Law; they never dreamt the 
 
 wondrous dream; 
 They never heard the Magic Bird, whose strains the poet's 
 
 soul entrance; 
 Their souls are in their money-bags — What should they know 
 
 of fair Romance ? 
 
 She still is here, the fair and dear, and walks the Earth with 
 
 noiseless feet; 
 Her eyes are deep, and dark and clear, her scarlet mouth is 
 
 honey-sweet; 
 A chaplet fair of roses rare and lordly laurel crowns her head; 
 Her path is over land and sea : she is not dead ; she is not dead.
 
 Romance 215 
 
 On roads of clay, 'neath skies of grey, though fate compel us 
 to advance, 
 
 Beyond the turning of the way there sits and waits for us 
 Romance. 
 
 Around yon cape of lion-shape, that meets the wave with lion- 
 brow, 
 
 A ship sails in from lands unknown; Romance stands shining 
 on her prow. 
 
 At dead of night, a fiery light from out the heart of darkness 
 
 glares ; 
 The engine, rocking in its flight, once more into the darkness 
 
 flares ; 
 The train flies fast, the bridge is past; white faces for a 
 
 moment gleam — 
 And at the window sits Romance, and gazes down into the 
 
 stream. 
 
 When first the child, with wonder wild, looks on the world 
 
 with shining eyes, 
 Romance becomes his guardian mild, and tells to him her 
 
 stories wise. 
 And when the light fades into night, and ended is their life's 
 
 short span, 
 To other wonder- wo rids she leads the spirit of the Dying Man. 
 
 Right grim gods be Reality, and iron-handed Circumstance. 
 Cast off their fetters, friend ! Break free and seek the shrine 
 
 of fair Romance. 
 And when dark days with cares would craze your brain^ then 
 
 she will take your hand. 
 And lead you on by greenwood ways unto a green and 
 
 pleasant land. 
 
 There you will see brave company, all making gay and 
 
 gallant cheer — 
 Blanaid the Fair, the Deirdre rare, and Gold Gudrun and 
 
 Guinevere; 
 And MerUn wise, with dreaming eyes, and Tristram of the 
 
 Harp and Bow; 
 While from the Wood of Broceliande the horns of Elfland 
 
 lively blow. 
 
 Victor Daley,
 
 2 1 6 The Women of the West 
 
 THE WOMEN OF THE W^ST 
 
 They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the 
 
 hill, 
 The houses in the busy streets where life is never still, 
 The pleasures of the city and the friends they cherished best: 
 In love they faced the wilderness — the Women of the V\'est. 
 
 The roar and rush and fever of the city died away, 
 
 And the old-time joys and faces — they were gone for many a 
 
 day; 
 In their place the lurching coach wheel, or the creaking 
 
 bullock chains. 
 O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains. 
 
 In the slab-built zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken 
 
 run. 
 In the tent beside the bankment of some railway newly begun, 
 In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest. 
 On the frontier of the nation, live the Women of the West. 
 
 The red sun robs their beauty, and in weariness and pain, 
 The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes 
 
 again ; 
 And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men 
 
 cannot say — 
 The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away. 
 
 The wild bush holds the secret of their longings and desires. 
 When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires, 
 And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast — 
 Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West. 
 
 For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts — 
 They only hear the beating of their gallant loving hearts. 
 But they have sung with silent lives, the song all songs above — 
 The loftiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.
 
 Babyl 
 
 on 217 
 
 Well have we held our father's creed, No call has passed us 
 
 We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die. 
 And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest. 
 The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the 
 West. 
 
 George Essex Evans. 
 
 BABYLON 
 
 {The City of Wild Contrasts) 
 
 CITY of wild contrasts, meetings strange. 
 
 More magical than old Arabian tales, 
 
 More wondrous than a youthful poet's dreams, 
 
 More common than a harlot in her paint, 
 
 More soul-benumbing than a factory's wheels, 
 
 So beautiful and fair, so wan and poor, 
 
 So brave and gallant, loathsome and so foul ; 
 
 Where Yesterday rubs shoulders with To-day, 
 
 And old Romance and dreary Common-place — 
 
 ! city of wild contrasts, meetings strange ! 
 
 Pacing the Strand, that By-way of the World, 
 The prying Yankee, there inquisitive 
 (His women-folk with guide-books all a-row), 
 Spies out his Broadway partner by the church 
 Where Johnson prayed; and with a nasal note 
 They pass together to the Templar's fane ! 
 
 The sun-dried squatter from his Austral run, 
 Yearning to meet again his old-time friend 
 Whose sheep once browsed the salt-bush with his own, 
 Takes ship to London, stalks past Bourse and band, 
 Sees him, and cooees 'neath Paul's glorious dome.
 
 21 8 The Cynic of the Woods 
 
 OVER THE SEA 
 
 {The Ballade of the Children of New Worlds) 
 
 Over the sea, where our kinsfolk dwell 
 
 In cities built of their golden gain, 
 By Maori lakes, by the South Sea's swell, 
 
 In the Austral bush, or on station plain. 
 
 However the elders may fume and complain. 
 The children are singing and shouting with glee 
 
 In Shakespeare's tongue — to the gay refrain 
 Of old English pastimes — over the Sea! 
 
 Ye who hold forth in your clubs in Pall Mall, 
 
 Or squabble o' nights in the Parliament's fane, 
 dull legislators, so anxious to tell 
 
 How to bind these lands in this bountiful reign, 
 
 Hark to these voices across the main ! 
 Grey sophists be still — you will never agree; 
 
 But the bonny young bairns may be weaving a chain 
 To link us at Home to those over the Sea ! 
 
 They can unite us — aye firmly and well — 
 
 In the bonds of a love that should ever remain; 
 The youngsters who romp in a sweet English dell, 
 
 Or rouse the bush echoes again and again. 
 
 They are our law-givers honest and sane. 
 Ye then who pray that our flag may fly free. 
 
 That England's proud might may ne'er weaken and wane, 
 List to the little ones — over the Sea ! 
 
 THE CYNIC OF THE WOODS 
 {The young poet and the laughing fackass) 
 
 I COME from busy haunts of men, 
 
 With Nature to commune. 
 Which you, it seems, observe, and then 
 
 Laugh out, like some buffoon.
 
 The Cynic of the Woods 219 
 
 You cease, and through the forest drear 
 
 I pace with sense of awe, 
 When once again upon my ear 
 
 Breaks in your harsh guffaw. 
 
 I look aloft to yonder place 
 
 Where placidly you sit, 
 And tell you to your very face, 
 
 I do not hke your wit. 
 
 I'm in no mood for blatant jest, 
 
 I hate your mocking song, 
 My weary soul demands the rest 
 
 Denied to it so long. 
 
 Besides, there passes through my brain 
 
 The poet's love of fame — 
 Why should not an Australian strain 
 
 Immortalise my name? 
 
 And so I pace the forest drear. 
 
 Filled with a sense of awe. 
 When louder still upon my ear 
 
 Breaks in your harsh guffaw. 
 
 Yet truly. Jackass, it may be 
 
 My words are all unjust; 
 You laugh at what you hear and see, 
 
 And laugh because you must. 
 
 You've seen Man, civilised and rude, 
 
 Of varying race and creed. 
 The black-skinned savage almost nude. 
 
 The EngUshman in tweed. 
 
 And here the lubra ^ oft has strayed 
 
 To rest beneath the boughs, 
 Where now, perchance, some fair-haired maid 
 
 May hear her lover's vows. 
 ^ Black woman.
 
 220 Wool Is Up 
 
 While you, from yonder lofty height, 
 
 Have studied human ways, 
 And with a satirist's delight 
 
 Dissected hidden traits. 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on ! Your rapturous shout 
 
 Again on me intrudes; 
 But I have found your secret out, 
 
 Cynic of the Woods. 
 
 Well ! I confess, grim mocking elf, 
 
 Howe'er I rhapsodise. 
 That I am more in love with self 
 
 Than with the earth or skies. 
 
 So I will lay the epic by 
 
 That I had just begun. 
 Why should I babble? Let me lie 
 
 Ajid bask here in the sun. 
 
 And let me own, were I endowed 
 
 With your fine humorous sense, 
 I too should laugh — aye, quite as loud, 
 
 At all Man's vain pretence. 
 
 A. Pachett Martin, 
 
 WOOL IS UP 
 
 Earth o'erflows with nectared gladness, 
 
 All creation teems with joy; 
 Banished be each thought of sadness. 
 
 Life for me has no alloy. 
 Fill a bumper, drain a measure. 
 
 Pewter, goblet, tankard, cup, 
 Testifying thus our pleasure 
 
 At the news that " wool is up." 
 
 Thwart the empires, 'neath the oceans. 
 Swiftly speeds the living fire; 
 
 Who shall tell what wild emotions 
 Spring from out that thridden wire?
 
 Wool Is Up 221 
 
 " Jute is lower, copper weaker," 
 
 This will break poor neighbour Jupp; 
 
 But for me, I shout " Eureka! " 
 Wealth is mine — for wool is up. 
 
 What care I for jute or cotton, 
 
 Sugar, copper, hemp, or flax, 
 Reeds like these are often rotten, 
 
 Turn to rods for owner's backs. 
 Fortune, ha ! I have thee holden 
 
 In what Scotia calls " a grup," 
 All my fleeces now are golden, 
 
 Full troy weight — for wool is up. 
 
 I will dance the gay fandango, 
 
 Though to me its steps be strange, 
 Doubts and fears, you all can hang go, 
 
 I will cut a dash on " Change." 
 Atra Cura, you will please me 
 
 By dismounting from my crup — 
 Crupper, you no more shall tease me, 
 
 Pray get down, — for wool is up. 
 
 Jane shall have that stylish bonnet 
 
 Which my scanty purse denied; 
 Long she set her heart upon it. 
 
 She shall wear it now with pride. 
 I will buy old Bumper's station, 
 
 Reign as king at Gerringhup, 
 For my crest, a bust of Jason, 
 
 With this motto, " Wool is up! " 
 
 I will keep a stud extensive; 
 
 Bolter, here, I'll have those greys, 
 Those Sir George deemed too expensive, 
 
 You can send them — with the bays. 
 Coursing, I should rather think so; 
 
 Yes, I'll take that " Lightning " pup: 
 Jones, my boy, you needn't wink so, 
 
 I can stand it — wool is up.
 
 222 Wool Is Down 
 
 Wifey, love, you're looking charming, 
 
 Years with you are but as days; 
 We must have a grand house-warming 
 
 When those painters mend their ways. 
 Let the ball-room be got ready, 
 
 Bid our friends to dance and sup. 
 Bother, how can I go steady? 
 
 I'm worth thousands — wool is up ! 
 
 WOOL IS DOWN 
 
 Blacker than e'er the inky waters roll 
 
 Upon the gloomy shores of sluggish Styx, 
 A surge of sorrow laps my leaden soul, 
 
 For that which was at " two " is now " one six." 
 " Come disappointment, come," as has been said 
 
 By some one else, who quailed 'neath fortune's frown. 
 '* Stab to the core the heart that once has bled," 
 
 For " heart " read " pocket " — wool, ah! wool is down. 
 
 " And in the lowest deep, a lower deep," 
 
 Thou sightless seer, indeed it may be so. 
 The road too well we know is somewhat steep, 
 
 And who shall stay us when that road we go ? 
 Thrice cursed wire, whose lightning strikes to blast. 
 
 Whose babbling tongue proclaims throughout the town 
 The news, which being ill, has travelled fast. 
 
 The dire intelligence — that wool is down. 
 
 A rise in copper and a rise in jute, 
 
 A fall alone in wool, but what a fall ! 
 Jupp must have made a pile this trip, the brute. 
 
 He don't deserve such splendid luck at all. 
 The smiles for him, for me the scalding tears. 
 
 He's worth ten thousand if he's worth a crown; 
 While I — untimely shorn by fate's hard shears — 
 
 Feel that my game is up when wool is down.
 
 Wool Is Down 223 
 
 Bolter, take back those prancing greys of thine, 
 Remove as well the vanquished warrior's bays, 
 
 My fortunes are not stable, they decline; 
 Aye, even horses taunt me with their neighs. 
 
 And thou sweet puppy of the " Lightning " breed, 
 Through whose fleet limbs I pictured me renown. 
 
 Hie howling to thy former home with speed, 
 ^ Thy course with me is up — for wool is down. 
 
 Why, Jane, what's this? — this pile of letters here? 
 
 Such waste of stamps is really very sad. 
 Your birthday ball? Oh come, not twice a year; 
 
 Good gracious me! the woman must be mad. 
 You'd better save expense at once, that's clear, 
 
 And send a bellman to invite the town ! 
 There — there — don't cry, forgive my temper, dear. 
 
 But put those letters up — for wool is down. 
 
 My station " Gerringhup," yes, that must go. 
 
 Its sheep, its oxen, and its kangaroos; 
 First 'twas the home of blacks, the whites we know, 
 
 Now is it a dwelling but for " the blues." 
 With it I leave the brotherhood of Cash 
 
 Who form Australian fashion's tinsel crown; 
 I tread along the devious paths of Smash, 
 
 I go where wool has gone — down, ever down. 
 
 Thus ends my dream of greatness — not for me 
 
 The silken couch, the banquet, and the rout. 
 They're flown — the base residium will be 
 
 A mutton chop and half a pint of stout — 
 Yet will I hold a corner in my soul 
 
 Where Hope may nestle safe from Fortune's frown. 
 Thou hoodwinked jade! my heart remaineth whole — 
 
 I'll keep my spirits up — though wool be down. 
 
 Garnet Walch.
 
 224 The Ruined Homestead 
 
 THE SHIP 
 
 BouND'to the wharf, 
 
 Dull-lapped on timid tides, 
 
 Thy fierce fires quenched and thy great engines stilled, 
 
 The splendid soul of thee at length asleep, 
 
 Thy latest task fulfilled, 
 
 Thou toy and tyrant of the infinite deep, 
 
 Devourer of vast distances that dwarf 
 
 Our parish miles to inches ! . . . 
 
 Art thou content, Ship? 
 
 0, great mute ship that answerest not, where is 
 
 Thy terrible voice. 
 
 That screamed derision through the thunderous night 
 
 And hurled defiance at the hurricane, 
 
 Thy voice that mocked the surges and outshrilled 
 
 The shrieking army of the dead sea-folk 
 
 Who ride for ever damned upon the wrack 
 
 Of howling storms? — where is thy mighty voice 
 
 That pealed tremendously across the dark 
 
 That guards the gates of hell, 
 
 great mute ship? 
 
 Bound to the wharf, 
 
 Soft-lulled by timid tides. 
 
 With fierce fires quenched and great grim engines stilled, 
 
 All dead and silent, ponderous and dumb. 
 
 Art thou content, Ship ! 
 
 Frank Morton. 
 
 THE RUINED HOMESTEAD 
 
 How broodingly, this gentle day, 
 The sunshine lies amongst the gorse 
 
 Of this old fence beside the way 
 
 That skirts the farm of David Morse:
 
 The Ruined Homestead 225 
 
 But David tarries here no more, 
 
 Nor any of his kith or kin; 
 Half-hingeless hangs the farmhouse door, 
 
 And desolation dwells within. 
 
 The roof-trees of the house and sheds 
 
 Are bent: the rafters, here and there. 
 Stick through the rotting thatch, and shreds 
 
 Of fastening whiten in the air: 
 No quiet cows in the pastures feed, 
 
 The fences all in ruin lie : 
 And, where the clover grew, the weed 
 
 Has reigned for many a year gone by. 
 
 A starling's song from one lone tree 
 
 In mellow snatches sweetly comes, 
 While here and there a vagrant bee, 
 
 Drawn by the yellow gorse blooms, hums; 
 And spiders' webs, where many a fiy 
 
 Has met its doom, the gorse enlace; 
 But nothing else can ear or eye 
 
 Detect of life about the place. 
 
 Like follows like; and David's life 
 
 Was one long wreck, through witless ways, 
 And, only for his wiser wife, 
 
 The end had come in earlier days; 
 But she, with her superior sense. 
 
 And planning early, plodding late, 
 Contrived to earn and save the pence 
 
 Required to buy delay from Fate. 
 
 On this lean farm for thirty years 
 
 The weary strife was carried on, 
 With heart-aches too intense for tears, 
 
 And hopes that gleamed and then were gone; 
 But she — the brave, forbearing wife — 
 
 Was not the woman to despair, 
 Or try to mend a rueful life 
 
 By crying forth its cark and care.
 
 226 Spring Morning 
 
 So year by year she played her part 
 
 With steady hand and steadfast mind, 
 Whereof the memory through my heart 
 
 Keeps moaning like a wintry wind ; 
 For I — am Mary Morse's son 
 
 (A prodigal returned to-day), 
 And know how well her work was done, 
 
 Yet how it wore her soul away. 
 
 John Christie. 
 
 THE REAPER 
 
 Watching the rhythmic reaper from the hill — 
 Like a green sea the broken waves of wheat 
 Splashed with red, wilting flowers at their feet — 
 Two lovers in the twilight lingered still. 
 
 A breathing poppy fluttered to the air: 
 She touched it with her curling finger-tips, 
 And stooping, pressed to it her vivid lips — 
 'Twas like a butterfly imprisoned there. 
 
 " Thrice blessed one," said she, " that freshly blows 
 Safe from the swift destroyer's icy breath " — 
 Her lover whispered, " May the scythe of death 
 So spare the place whereon my flower grows." 
 
 Lala Fisher. 
 
 SPRING MORNING 
 
 What clearer than this earth and air? 
 The birds go flying everywhere 
 
 As I ride. 
 See the black swans, white-vanned pair, 
 Soaring from the pale swamp there 
 
 Up the wide 
 Lower heaven, so sweet and fair.
 
 Settlers 227 
 
 Harkj the pulsing magpie calls 
 His melodious intervals 
 
 As I ride: 
 So my soul beyond the walls, 
 Where her last low fetter falls 
 
 Glorified, 
 Sings to God glad madrigalsi 
 
 F. W. AdamSw 
 
 SETTLERS 
 
 If the gods of Hellas do not tread our shaggy mountains — 
 Stately white and golden, with unfathomable eyes: — 
 
 Yet the lesser spirits haunt our forests and our fountains, 
 Seas and green-brown river-pools no thirsty summer dries. 
 
 Never through the tangled scrub we see Diana glisten, 
 Silver-limbed and crescent-crowned and swift to hear and 
 turn, 
 
 When the chase is hottest and the woods are waked to listen, 
 While her maidens follow running knee-deep in the fern. 
 
 Of the great gods only Pan walks hourly here — Pan only. 
 In the warm dark gullies, in the thin clear upland air, 
 
 On the windy sea-cliffs and the plains apart and lonely, 
 By the tingling silence you may know that he is there. 
 
 But the sea nymphs make our shores shine gay with light and 
 laughter. 
 At the sunset where the waves are mingled milk and fire. 
 You may see them very plain, and in the darkness after 
 You may hear them singing with the stars' great golden 
 choir. 
 
 When the earth is mad with song some blue September 
 morning. 
 In the grove of myall trees that rustle green and grey. 
 Through the plumes of trailing leaves hung meet for her 
 adorning. 
 See a dark-browed Dryad peep, and swiftly draw away !
 
 2 28 September 
 
 In the deep-cut river beds set thick with moss-grown 
 boulders, 
 Where the wagtails come to drink and balance lest they 
 fall, 
 You may see the gleaming of a Naiad's slippery shoulders, 
 And the water sUding cool and quiet over all. 
 
 Through the narrow gorges where the flying-foxes muster, 
 Hanging from the Kurrapongs like monstrous magic grapes. 
 
 Something spreads a sudden fear that breaks each heavy 
 cluster — 
 See the furry prick-eared faun that chuckles and escapes 1 
 
 Marble-smooth and marble-pale the blue gums guard the 
 clearing. 
 When the winter fern is gold among the silver grass, 
 And the shy bush creatures watching bright-eyed and 
 unf earing. 
 See the slender Oreads while we unheeding pass. 
 
 Wreathed with starry clematis these tread the grassy spaces, 
 When the moon sails up beyond the highest screening tree. 
 
 All the forest dances, and the furthest hidden places 
 Are astir with beauty — but we may not often see. 
 
 Centuries before the golden vision came to find us. 
 Showing us the southern lands, these Grecians settled here: 
 
 Now they throng the country, but our Uttle hurries blind us, 
 And we must be reverent ere the least of them appear. 
 
 Dorothea Mackellar, 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 The morns are growing misty, the nights are turning cold, 
 The linden leaves are falling like a shower of gold; 
 And over where ffiy heart is, beneath the Southern sun, 
 The shearing's nearly over and the spring's begun. 
 
 The crying flocks are driven to feed in peace again, 
 
 They stream and spread and scatter on the smooth green plain, 
 
 And in the sky above them the soft spring breezes keep 
 
 A flock of clouds as snowy as the new-shorn sheep.
 
 Colour 229 
 
 Now later comes the sunshine, and sooner comes the dark; 
 The barefoot newsboys shiver; the ladies in the Park 
 Wear furs about their shoulders, for autumn winds are keen, 
 And rusty, curling edges fleck the chestnuts' green. 
 
 The mists hang gauzy curtains of pearl and pigeon-blue 
 Between us and the distance; the street-lamps shining through 
 Wear each a golden halo, diaphanous and fair — 
 But not one whit more lovely than my own clear air. 
 
 More clear than you can dream it, as bright as diamond, 
 It bathes the plains and ridges and the hills beyond, 
 It bathes the pillared woodlands that ring with bell-bird notes, 
 With mating-calls and answers from a thousand throats. . . . 
 
 The lamps are lit in London, and in their searching light 
 The smiling anxious faces look very strained and white: 
 And over where my heart is, twelve thousand miles away. 
 The dewy grass is glinting at the break of day. 
 
 COLOUR 
 
 The lovely things that I have watched unthinking, 
 
 Unknowing, day by day, 
 That their soft dyes had steeped my soul in colour 
 
 That will not pass away: — 
 
 Great saffron sunset clouds, and larks from mountains. 
 
 And fenceless miles of plain. 
 And hillsides golden green in that unearthly 
 
 Clear shining after rain; 
 
 And nights of blue and pearl; and long smooth bearhes, 
 
 Yellow as sunburnt wheat, 
 Edged with a line of foam that creams and hisses 
 
 Enticing weary feet. 
 
 And emeralds, and sunset-hearted opals, 
 
 And Asian marble, veined 
 With scarlet flame, and cool green jade, and moonstones 
 
 Misty and azure-stained;
 
 230 The Upper Darling 
 
 And almond- trees in bloom, and oleanders, 
 
 Or a wide purple sea. 
 Of plain-land gorgeous with a lovely poison, 
 
 The evil Darling pea. 
 
 There is no night so black but you shine through it, 
 
 There is no mom so drear, 
 colour of the world, but I can find you, 
 
 Most tender, pure, and clear. 
 
 Thanks be to God, who gave this gift of colour, 
 
 Which who shall seek shall find; 
 Thanks be to God, who gives me strength to hold it. 
 
 Though I were stricken blind. 
 
 Dorothea Mackellar. 
 
 THE UPPER DARLING 
 
 Where, like an oven in the sky, 
 Australia's sun is blazing high, 
 And from its distant inland source 
 The Darling winds its sinuous course, 
 'Mid drear}' regions, parched and dry, 
 Whose sameness palls the wearied eye; 
 With sandy scrubs and salt-bush plains. 
 That scant reward the shepherd's pains; 
 And timber belts of straggling growth. 
 All stunted with the summer's drouth; 
 Where dusty clouds and teasing flies 
 Afflict the sight and bung the eyes : 
 While panting nature faints beneath 
 The hot sirocco's stifling breath; 
 Where, proper to that region rude. 
 Appears the Aborigine nude. 
 With agile form, and eye of fear. 
 Equipped with boomerang and spear, 
 A simple race, devoid of cares. 
 Who herd in camps, like beasts in lairs, 
 Exhibiting in their outlines — 
 As things grow coarse at their confines — 
 God's image's remotest trace. 
 The selvedge of the human race. 
 
 DuGALD Ferguson.
 
 To One in England 231 
 
 DEATH IN THE BUSH 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF BURKE AND WILLS 
 
 To die, to perish in the bush alone, 
 
 With but the wilds to hear thy parting groan; 
 
 With but the winds to catch thy parting breath, 
 
 And mock the last long agony of death; 
 
 To feel some message to the true and dear 
 
 Clamour for utterance, yet with none to hear; 
 
 To long with anguish health can never know 
 
 For the last solace human hands bestow; 
 
 Yet hear no gentle tone, no soft caress 
 
 Soothing thy spirit's last and worst distress; 
 
 To feel a thousand thoughts for language rise, 
 
 Yet which must perish when the body dies; 
 
 Where no kind voice can quell the rising fears. 
 
 No gentle hand wipe off the bitter tears; 
 
 To face the awful king unarmed, alone, 
 
 Thy loss unnoticed, and thy fate unknown; 
 
 To know not if thy wasted form shall lie 
 
 And shrivel 'neath the sun's all-scorching eye; 
 
 Or if the warrigal with rapture grim 
 
 Shall tear thee piece from piece, and limb from limb; 
 
 To know thine eyes may gaze unclosed to Heaven, 
 
 Till from their orbs by crows and swamp-hawks riven; 
 
 Which to their prey, while still thou'rt conscious, rush ! 
 
 God grant we face not death while in the bush. 
 
 Margaret TnoMASg 
 
 TO ONE IN ENGLAND 
 
 " I SEND to you " 
 Songs of a southern isle, 
 Isle like a flower 
 In warm seas low lying: 
 
 Songs to beguile 
 Some wearisome hour, 
 When Time's tired of flying.
 
 232 Old New Zealand 
 
 Songs which were sung, 
 To a rapt listener lying 
 In sweet lazy hours, 
 Where wild birds' nests swung 
 And winds came a-sighing 
 In nature's own bowers. 
 
 Songs which trees sung, 
 By summer winds swayed 
 Into rhythmical sound ; 
 Sweet soul-bells rung 
 Through the Ngaio's green shade 
 Unto one on the ground. 
 
 Songs from an island 
 Just waking from sleep. 
 In history's morning; 
 Songs from a land 
 Where night shadows creep. 
 When your day is dawning. 
 
 0, songs, go your way, 
 
 Over seas, over lands; 
 
 Though friendless sometimes. 
 
 Fear not, comes a day 
 
 When the world will clasp hands 
 
 With my wandering rhymes. 
 
 Eleanor Elizabeth Montgomery. 
 
 OLD NEW ZEALAND 
 (1642-1769) 
 
 Fair lay the land and lonely, by white man's foot untrod — 
 It seemed another Eden fresh from the hand of God, 
 When Abel Tasman, sailing through seas unpierced before. 
 Beheld with joy and wonder this sunny Southern shore — 
 
 Beheld the woods and mountains, all clad in radiant dress; 
 Beheld the myriad songsters, arrayed in loveliness; 
 Beheld the swarming people, on beach or headland high. 
 Who walked in grace and manhood with prideful step and eye !
 
 Old New Zealand 233 
 
 All this saw Abel Tasman; men heard his wondrous tale, 
 Incredulous, unheeding; neglect let fall her veil; 
 Nor till another hundred years had passed in solemn train, 
 Did eye of white man rest upon this virgin land again. 
 
 But Tasman — -young and ardent, and fired with warmest love 
 For his dear native Zealand, and one he prized above 
 All other maids — had left here, amid the Southern foam, 
 Enduring tokens of his love and sweetheart and of home. 
 
 Behold where Cape Maria Van Diemen, on the north. 
 Proclaims of Tasman's lady-love the virtues and the worth ; 
 And while we name these islands " New Zealand," as to-day, 
 The fame of Abel Tasman shall never fade away. 
 
 • • • • • • •« 
 
 Twelve weary decades later, the Maoris gazed again ; 
 There came a sailor greater than Tasman o'er the main; 
 'Twas Cook, the brave explorer, the fearless and the free, 
 Who found the lost New Zealand amid the Southern Sea. 
 
 He spied the country's borders — he spared not toil or time; 
 He marked its soil productive, its bright and healthy clime ; 
 He saw its noble harbours, its lofty mountain chains, 
 Grand woods, pellucid waters, and broad and fertile plains; 
 
 He marked the fluttering millions of birds of various hues ; 
 
 He saw the swarming people, in mighty war canoes ; 
 
 He marked how strange their language, their customs and 
 
 their dress, 
 While every tattooed visage would 'horrent wrath express! 
 
 How wild and fierce these Maoris no words may well describe, 
 Rapine and rage were rampant; tribe fought 'gainst hostile 
 
 tribe ; 
 Each village was a fortress ; the sound of war ne'er ceased ; 
 Each battle was the prelude to a bloody human feast ! 
 
 E'en woman, formed for sweetness, for love, and tender art, 
 Here showed the tiger instinct, the hard and ruthless heart ; 
 Hers was the task in battle the wounded brave to slay, 
 And cook the reeking corpses for the feast that closed the 
 fray.
 
 234 
 
 New Zealand 
 
 How sad and strange this horrid change from the sweet age 
 
 of Gold! 
 And though the " why " and " wherefore " may not by man 
 
 be told, 
 We know that human nature is perverse, weak, and vile, 
 And soon ease turns to evil the good enjoyed erewhile. 
 
 As Jacob's offspring lusted for Egypt's spicy food. 
 Perhaps the Maori thirsted once more for human blood ; 
 Then appetite perverted from nature's healthy course, 
 Though long suppressed, might wake again with all resistless 
 force 1 
 
 Hence kindred preyed on kindred; the sire devoured the 
 
 child ; 
 Man (made in God's own image) had sunk, debased, defiled. 
 Not lower than the angel, but lower than the beast. 
 Which preys not on its kind, but turns in loathing from the 
 
 feast. 
 
 Such the New Zealand Maori when Britons first arrived; 
 But 'mid her degradation some Godlike traits survived. 
 Brave, trustful, truthful, generous, he could at times be still; 
 Strange compound be of diverse traits, extremes of good 
 and ill. 
 
 J. LiDDELL Kelly. 
 
 NEW ZEALAND 
 (1893) 
 
 God girt her about with the surges 
 
 And winds of the masterless deep. 
 Whose tumult uprouses and urges 
 
 Quick billows to sparkle and leap. 
 He filled from the life of their motion 
 
 Her nostrils with breath of the sea. 
 And gave her afar in the ocean 
 
 A citadel free. 
 
 Her never the fever-mist shrouding. 
 Nor drought of the desert may blight, 
 
 Nor pall of dim smoke overclouding 
 Vast cities of clamour and night.
 
 New Zealand 235 
 
 But the voice of abundance of waters, 
 
 The valleys that bright rivers lave, 
 Greets the children, the sons and the daughters 
 
 Of sunshine and wave. 
 
 Lo ! here where each league hath its fountain, 
 
 The isles of deep fern and tall pine. 
 And breezes snow-cooled on the mountains, 
 
 Or keen from the limitless brine. 
 See men to the battlefield pressing 
 
 To conquer one foe — the stem soil, 
 Their kingship in labour expressing, 
 
 Their lordship in toil. 
 
 Though young, they are heirs of the ages, 
 
 Though few, they are freemen and peers, 
 Plain workers — though sure of their wages 
 
 Slow Destiny pays with the years. 
 Though least they and latest their nation. 
 
 Yet this they have won without sword, 
 That woman with man shall have station, 
 
 And Labour be lord. 
 
 The winds of the sea and high heaven 
 
 Speed pure to her kissed by the foam. 
 The steeds of her ocean undriven, 
 
 Unbitted and riderless roam. 
 And clear from her lamp newly lighted 
 
 Shall stream o'er the billows uncurled 
 A light as of wrongs at length righted. 
 
 Of Hope to the world. 
 
 W. P. Reeves. 
 
 NEW ZEALAND 
 
 The rippling waters 
 Of the Waitemata 
 Dance light and joyous 
 
 To the evening breeze; 
 The bell-bird chimeth 
 Pleasant anthems
 
 236 From " Raiiolf and Amohia " 
 
 To the locusts chirping 
 
 On the myrtle trees; 
 And orange blossoms 
 Around me falling, 
 And rosebuds smiling 
 
 Where the eye may rest; 
 The bright stars quiver 
 On the flowing river^ 
 Like rubies shimmer 
 
 On an angel's breast. 
 
 The purple blossoms 
 In the woodland bowers, 
 The rippling brooklet 
 
 And the foaming spray; 
 The fern tree bending, 
 The tide up-surging, 
 And zephyrs laden 
 
 With perfumed spray. 
 These are thy beauties, 
 Oh, fair Zealandia ! 
 And brave hearts beating — 
 
 With love and glee, 
 And thy lovely daughters, 
 Like thy laughing waters. 
 Trill light and joyous 
 
 Love songs to thee. 
 
 W. R. Wills. 
 
 FROM " RANOLF AND AMOHIA " 
 A South Sea Day Dream 
 
 THE ISLAND 
 
 O'er scenes more fair, serenely wild, 
 
 Not often summer's glor}^ smiled; 
 
 Where flecks of cloud, transparent, bright, 
 
 No alabaster half so white — 
 
 Hung lightly in a luminous dome 
 
 Of sapphire — seemed to float and sleep 
 
 Far in the front of its blue steep;
 
 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 237 
 
 And almost awful, none the less 
 
 For its liquescent loveliness, 
 
 Behind them sunk — just o'er the hill 
 
 The deep abyss, profound and still — 
 
 The so immediate Infinite; 
 
 That yet emerged, the same, it seemed 
 
 In hue divine and melting balm. 
 
 In many a lake whose crystal calm 
 
 Uncrisped, unwrinkled, scarcely gleamed ; 
 
 When sky above and lake below 
 
 Would Uke one sphere of azure show, 
 
 Save for the circling belt alone. 
 
 The softly-painted purple zone 
 
 Of mountains — bathed where nearer seen 
 
 In sunny tints of sober green. 
 
 With velvet dark of woods between, 
 
 All glossy glooms and shifting sheen; 
 
 While here and there, some peaks of snow 
 
 Would o'er their tenderer violet lean, 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 And yet within this region, fair 
 With wealth of waving woods — these glades 
 And glens and lustre-smitten shades. 
 Where trees of tropic beauty rare 
 With graceful spread and ample swell 
 Uprose — and that strange asphodel ^ 
 On tufts of stiff green bayonet-blades, 
 Great bunches of white bloom upbore 
 Like blocks of sea-washed madrepore. 
 That steeped the noon in fragrance wide, 
 Till by the exceeding sweet opprest 
 The stately tree-fern leaned aside 
 For languor, with its starry crown 
 Of radiating fretted fans. 
 And proudly-springing beauteous crest 
 Of shoots all brown with gUstening down. 
 Curved like the lyre-bird's tail half-spread. 
 Or necks opposed of wrangling swans, 
 Red bill to bill — black breast to breast — 
 Aye ! in this reahn of seeming rest, 
 
 1 Order Liliaceas, lo to 40 feet high, leaves 2 feet, flower deaselv 
 crowded.
 
 238 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 
 
 What sights you met and sounds of dread ! 
 
 Calcareous caldrons^ deep and large 
 
 With geysers hissing to their merge; 
 
 Sulphureous fumes that spout and blow; 
 
 Columns and cones of boiling snow; 
 
 And sable lazy-bubbling pools 
 
 Of spluttering mud that never cools; 
 
 With jets of steam through narrow vents 
 
 Uproaring, maddening to the sky, 
 
 Like cannon-mouths that shoot on high 
 
 In unremitting loud discharge 
 
 Their inexhaustible contents; 
 
 While oft beneath the trembling ground 
 
 Rumbles a drear persistent sound 
 
 Like ponderous engines infinite, working 
 
 At some tremendous task below ! — 
 
 Such are the signs and symptoms — lurking 
 
 Or launching forth in dread display — 
 
 Of hidden fires, internal strife, 
 
 Amid that leafy, lush array 
 
 Of rank luxuriant verdurous life: 
 
 Glad haunts above where blissful live 
 
 High revel, rove, enraptured dwell; 
 
 But through them pierce such tokens fierce 
 
 Of rage beneath and frenzies fell; 
 
 As if, to quench and stifle it, 
 
 Green Paradise were flung o'er Hell — 
 
 Flung fresh with all her bowers close-knit. 
 
 Her dewy dales and dimpled streams ; 
 
 Yet could not so its fury quell 
 
 But that the old red realm accurst 
 
 Would still recalcitrate, rebel, 
 
 Still struggle upward and outburst 
 
 In scalding fumes, sulphureous steams. 
 
 It struck you as you paused to trace 
 
 The sunny scenery's strange extremes. 
 
 As if in some divinest face, 
 
 All heavenly smiles, angelic grace, 
 
 Your eye at times discovered, despite 
 
 Sweet looks with innocence elate. 
 
 Some wan wild spasm of blank affright, 
 
 Or demon scowl of pent-up hate;
 
 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 239 
 
 Or some convulsive writhe confest, 
 For all that bloom of beauty bright, 
 An anguish not to be represt. 
 You look — a moment bask in, bless 
 The laughing light of happiness; 
 But look again — what startling throes 
 And fiery pangs of fierce distress 
 The lovely lineaments disclose — 
 How o'er the fascinating features flit 
 The genuine passions of the nether pit ! 
 
 TANGI— THE CHIEF 
 
 Such was this Tangi— such " The Wailing Sea; " 
 
 Of form almost gigantic he — 
 Bull -necked, square - jawed, firm -lipped, bold -eyed, 
 
 broad-browed. 
 His looks proclaimed his character aloud: 
 And when he stood forth in full height and pride 
 In flowing vest of silky flax, undyed. 
 But crimson-spotted with round knobs of wool. 
 Black points of cord, alternate, hanging free; 
 And o'er it, down to the brown ankles bare 
 A mantle of white wild-dog fur well-dressed, 
 Its skirt's broad rim tan-hued; his snowy hair 
 
 Crowned with a jet-black arching crest 
 
 Of hoop5e-feathers stuck upright, 
 
 Their tips a crescent of pure white; 
 And in his hand, to order with or smite. 
 The greenstone baton broad of war or rule. 
 Green, smooth, and oval as a cactus leaf — 
 Did he not look, aye, every inch a Chief? 
 Did not each glance and gesture stamp him then. 
 Self-heralded a God-made King of Men? 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 A thunderstorm was sweeping o'er the lake. 
 The hills had whitened off in sudden mist 
 That soon grew leaden-livid ; flake on flake
 
 240 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 
 
 The fine spray smoked along the watery floor — 
 
 Till plumb-down rushed the rain's impetuous pour^ 
 
 A thousand claps of thunder seemed to break 
 
 Confusedly all at once — with clattering roar 
 
 Tumbled about the air or groaning rolled^ 
 
 As if some race Titanic^ storming Heaven 
 
 From ponderous unimaginable wains 
 
 On rocky grating causeways headlong driven, 
 
 Shot crashing mountains on the skiey plains; 
 
 Or if the tumult for a moment stopped 
 
 You heard the torrent rain how loud it hissed, 
 
 As if a hecatomb of bulls at least 
 
 Were broiling for some sacrificial feast; 
 
 And all about the liquid lightnings dropped 
 
 In points like grapestones shaped, of molten gold. 
 
 But Tangi, while the tempest raged, was told 
 
 That where his daughter might be no one knew — 
 
 They feared, upon the lake in her canoe. 
 
 Straightway the stoutest of his clansmen staunch 
 
 He sent in search of her their boats to launch; 
 
 Then set himself to charm away the storm ; 
 
 And it was rare to see the grand old chief 
 
 Now in the haughtiness of fancied power 
 
 To cope with nature in her fiercest hour. 
 
 Quick pouring forth wild-ringing chaunt on chaunt 
 
 To bid Tawhiri — God of Storms — A vaunt ! 
 
 Now in a rival storm of rage and grief 
 
 Threatening — reproaching — all his stalwart form 
 
 Dilating with defiance: outstretched arms 
 
 And head thrown back and milk-white fleece of hair, 
 
 And bloodshot eyes and dark-blue visage bare 
 
 Lit up by fits in the blue lightning's glare. 
 
 So plies he his monotonous rude charms — 
 
 So on the storm his vehement passion vents. 
 
 Hoarsely upbraiding the hoarse elements. 
 
 But soon the light canoe they saw 
 
 Come bounding o'er the breaking wave; 
 
 There sate, while mixed delight and awe 
 Beamed from her face, the maiden brave 
 
 With rapid change from side to side 
 
 A native youth the paddle plied —
 
 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 241 
 
 A stranger^ and his hearty will 
 
 Seemed matched with equal strength and skill. 
 
 Attentive to his least command 
 
 The maiden grasped with one firm hand 
 
 The sheet that held the shortened sail 
 
 That strained and tugged beneath the gale, 
 
 And with the other strove to bale 
 
 Fast as she could the water, still 
 
 Threatening the little bark to fill. 
 
 Begemmed with spray her dark hair streamed ; 
 
 Her beauteous cheek no paler seemed 
 
 Though rain and spray-drops o'er it teemed 
 
 And all around the lightnings gleamed : 
 
 For neither lightning, rain, nor spray 
 
 Could turn her from her task away. 
 
 Still stood the sail and bending mast, 
 
 And they the beach were nearing fast. 
 
 Then through the waters' boiling strife 
 
 The clansmen rushed at risk of life; 
 
 A struggling, swimming, diving crowd, 
 
 They seized with acclamations loud 
 
 The gunwale of the light canoe ; 
 
 On either side, a dancing row 
 
 Of rough black heads now rising through 
 
 Now sunk beneath the foamy snow, 
 
 With great triumphant shouts they bore 
 
 Canoe and maiden to the shore. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF TAWHAKI 
 
 Then Amohia, tapping Ranolf's arm. 
 Said, " Listen, Pakeha^ " —and with lifted hand. 
 Rounding — enchantress-wise. 
 When double soul she throws into a charm — 
 The solemn archness of her great black eyes, 
 
 Deep lighted like a well. 
 An ancient legend she began to tell 
 Of one God-hero of the land, 
 Of which our faithful lay presents 
 Precisely the main incidents, 
 * Foreigner. 
 
 Q
 
 242 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 
 
 Diluting only here and there 
 The better its intent to reach, 
 The language so condensed and bare, 
 Those clotted rudiments of speech : 
 
 " Once a race, the Pona-turi — in the oozy depths of ocean, 
 Fierce, uncouth, in gloomy glory, lived where light is none, 
 
 nor motion. 
 More than anything created, light, their bane, their death, 
 
 they hated ; 
 So for night they ever waited ere ashore they seal-like 
 
 clambered 
 To their house Manawa-tane — their great mansion lofty 
 
 chambered ; 
 Whence, if e'er a windy moon had caught them, you would 
 
 see them hieing 
 Homeward — sable-shapes beneath the crisping silver floating, 
 
 flying. 
 Swift as scattered clouds on high their snowy courses gaily 
 
 plying. 
 Young TawhAki, well he knew them — did they not his 
 
 father mangle ? 
 Hang his fieshless bones, a scarecrow, ghastly from their 
 
 roof to dangle? 
 Keep his mother, too, a slave, each day to give them timely 
 
 warning 
 Ere dark sky from earth uplifting left the first gold gap of 
 
 morning ? 
 
 " Vengeance with his mother then he plotted. So by day- 
 light hiding 
 In their houseroof-thatch he couched, his sHmy foes' arrival 
 
 biding. 
 Darkness comes; they land in swarms; their spacious house 
 
 they crowd and cumber; 
 Revel through the midnight reckless; drop at last in weary 
 
 slumber. 
 Like the distant ocean's roaring sinks and swells the mighty 
 
 snoring — 
 Out then steals Tawhaki chuckling: long ere day begins to 
 
 brighten. 
 Stops up every chink in doorway, window, that could let the 
 
 light in:
 
 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 
 
 243 
 
 And the snoring goes on roaring; or if any sleeper yawning 
 Turned him restless, thinking, ' Surely it must now be near 
 
 the dawning/ 
 Growling, ' Slave, is daylight breaking ? are you watching, 
 
 are you waking? ' 
 Still the mother answered blandly, ' Fear not, I will give you 
 
 wammg- 
 
 Sleep, sleep, my Pona-turi — there are yet no streaks of 
 morning ! ' 
 
 " So the snoring goes on roaring. Now above the mountains 
 
 dewy. 
 High the splendour — God careers it — great Te Ra, the Tama 
 
 Nui.i 
 Sudden cries Tawhaki's mother, ' Open doors and windows 
 
 quickly 1 
 Every stop-gap tear out, clear out/ On them pour the sun- 
 beams thickly ! 
 Through the darksome mansion — through and through those 
 
 sons of darkness streaming 
 Flash the spear-flights of the Day-God — deadly silent — 
 
 golden-gleaming ! 
 Down they go, the Pona-turi ! vain their struggles, yells, and 
 
 fury! 
 Like dead heaps of fishes stranded by the storm-spray, 
 
 gaping — staring — 
 Stiffened — so astonished, helpless, lay they in the sunbeams 
 
 glaring: 
 Fast as shrink upon the shelly beach, those tide-left discs of 
 
 jelly; 
 Fast as leathery fungus-balls in yellow dust-clouds fuming 
 
 fly off, 
 So they shrink, they fade, they wither, so those Imps of 
 
 Darkness die off ! " 
 
 1 Te Ra — the Sun. Tama Nui — the " great Son " of the Heavens 
 and Earth. 
 
 " Te Ra, the Sun." A curious coincidence, if nothing more, that 
 the Sun, personified or deified throughout Polynesia under the name 
 " Ra," was worshipped under the same name Ra, or Re, (The Sun, 
 P»-Ra = Phrah = Pharaoh, the royal title), universally throughout 
 Egypt, and especially at Heliopolis in Lower Egypt, the " On " of the 
 Jewish scriptures. See Wilkiuson's.4««>w/ Egyptians, vol. Iv. p. 287, etc.
 
 244 From " Ranolf and Amohia" 
 
 AMOHIA S FLIGHT 
 
 Then paddling off with all her might, 
 
 Away across the lake she flew, 
 
 And left a wake of foam snow-bright, 
 
 And broadening ripple glassy-blue; 
 
 While dashing after, less expert. 
 
 Soon Ranolf finds he must exert 
 
 His utmost skill to catch her, too. 
 
 But when, though less by skill than strength, 
 
 He nears her flying skiff at length — 
 
 With nimble paddle dodging back 
 
 She slips off on another tack, 
 
 With swiftly- flitting noiseless ease; 
 
 As — when some fisher thinks to seize 
 
 With gently-dropped and stealthy spear 
 
 A flounder, down in shallows clear, 
 
 'Mid mottling tufts of dusky weeds 
 
 And white sand-patches where it feeds — 
 
 The trembling shadow shifts away 
 
 Through faintly-shimmering water grey — 
 
 'Tis there— and gone — his would-be prey! 
 
 So, hovering round with wistful eyes. 
 
 While many a feint, to cheat, surprise. 
 
 That merry mocker, Ranolf tries. 
 
 She, at a little distance staying, 
 
 And watchful, with the paddle playing, 
 
 No move of his, no glance to miss — 
 
 Now darts alert that way, now this; 
 
 And at each foiled attempt again 
 
 Provokes him in alluring strain: 
 
 " Look! I'm one of those divine ones — joy and love of all 
 
 beholders. 
 Who had pinions, such fine ones! growing from their 
 
 stately shoulders; — 
 Not that fond one too confiding — so in vain your bright eyes 
 
 watch me — 
 He, the last on earth residing ... Ah ! you need not think 
 
 to catch me ! . . .
 
 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 245 
 
 Who, beside his loved-one lying, let the maid while he was 
 
 sleeping, 
 Press his wings off, spoil his flying — lest he e'er should leave 
 
 her weeping ! " 
 
 Then off she skims in circuit wide, 
 Resolved another plan to try. 
 Again with paddles swiftly plied, 
 Again across the lake they fly; 
 And as her little bark he nears, 
 A new defiance Ranolf hears: 
 
 " I'm Wakatau, he — 
 
 That Child of the Sea! 
 
 And my dearest delight 
 
 Is flying my kite. 
 
 Down beneath, on the sand. 
 
 With the string in my hand, 
 
 Under water I stand; 
 
 Or the kite in the air. 
 
 Like the day-moon up there, 
 
 Like an albatross strong, 
 
 Draws me swiftly along 
 
 As I float to and fro 
 
 On the green sea below. — 
 
 Apakiira, my mother 
 
 Can catch me, none other; 
 
 From the quickest alive, 
 
 Down — down — would I dive! — 
 
 Whoever you be — 
 
 Though fonder, though dearer. 
 
 You, you are not she, 
 
 Apakura, no! — 
 
 So if you come nearer 
 
 See — down I must go ! " 
 
 Scarce on the gunwale had he laid 
 His hand, and scarce the words were said. 
 Ere, slipping from her loosened dress, 
 Her simple kilt and cloak of flax — 
 Just as a chestnut you may press 
 With careful foot ere ripened well,
 
 246 From " Ranolf and Amohia " 
 
 Shoots from its green and prickly shell, 
 
 With tender rind so tawny-clean 
 
 And dainty-pure and smooth as wax — 
 
 She shot into the blue serene — 
 
 A moment gleamed, then out of sight, 
 
 Swift as a falling flash of light ! 
 
 All round he seeks with anxious mien 
 
 The Naiad — nowhere to be seen: 
 
 A fearful time he seems to spy — 
 
 His heart beats quick — when lo, hard by, 
 
 A mermaid ! risen on the rocks, 
 
 Whose diamond glances archly play 
 
 Through shaken clouds of glittering locks, 
 
 And glancing showers of diamond-spray: 
 
 " You are not Apakura ! 0, no, no, not you ! " 
 
 She cries — and dives beneath the blue. 
 
 He follows, watching where she glides 
 
 Beneath a drooping pall profound 
 
 Of boughs, that all the water hides. 
 
 Into the gloom he pushes: sound 
 
 Or sight of her is none around. 
 
 But hark ! — 'twas somewhere near the bank 
 
 That sudden splash ! it takes his ear 
 
 As startlingly as sometimes, near 
 
 A stream where June's hot grass is rank, 
 
 You hear the coiled-up water-snake 
 
 Your unsuspecting footsteps wake. 
 
 Flap down upon the wave below, 
 
 And wabbling through the water go. 
 
 Again to the mid-lake she hies; 
 
 In swift pursuit again he flies: 
 
 And see ! she waits with face, how meek ! 
 
 Till he can touch and almost clasp 
 
 The shining shoulders, laughing cheek; 
 
 Then, diving swift, eludes his grasp: 
 
 Just as, with quick astonished eye, 
 
 A wild-duck waits, until well-nigh 
 
 The ruddy-curled retriever's snap 
 
 Is gently closing like a trap 
 
 On its poor neck and broken wing. 
 
 Before with sudden jerk she dips, 
 
 Beneath the ripple vanishing.
 
 A Colonist in His Garden 247 
 
 From Ranolf so the maiden slips — 
 And when, the chase renewed, he nears 
 The spot where next she reappears, 
 Look ! floating on the glass she lies 
 With close-sealed lips and fast-shut eyes, 
 Still as a saint in marble bloom 
 Carved snowy-dead upon a tomb. 
 
 Alfred Domett. 
 
 A COLONIST IN HIS GARDEN 
 He Reads a Letter 
 
 " Dim grows your face, and in my ears. 
 Filled with the tramp of hurrying years, 
 
 Your voice dies, far apart. 
 Our shortening day draws in, alack! 
 Old Friend, ere darkness falls, turn back 
 
 To England, life and art. 
 
 " Write not that you content can be, 
 Pent by that drear and shipless sea 
 
 Round lonely islands rolled. 
 Isles nigh as empty as their deep. 
 Where men but talk of gold and sheep 
 
 And think of sheep and gold. 
 
 " A land without a past; a race 
 Set in the rut of commonplace. 
 
 Where Demos overfed 
 Allows no gulf, permits no height. 
 And grace and colour, music, light, 
 
 From sturdy scorn are fled. 
 
 " I'll draw you home. Lo ! As I write 
 A flash — a swallow's arrow-flight! 
 
 O'erhead the skylark's wings 
 Quiver with joy at winter's rout: 
 A gust of April from without 
 
 Scents of the garden brings.
 
 248 A Colonist in His Garden 
 
 "; The quickening turf is starred with gold; 
 The orchard vvall^ rust-red and old, 
 
 Glows in the sunlight long. 
 The very yew-tree warms to-day, 
 As the sundial, mossed and gray, 
 
 Marks with a shadow strong. 
 
 " Tired of the bold aggressive New, 
 Say, will your eyes not joy to view. 
 
 In a sedater clime, 
 How mellowing tones at leisure steal, 
 And age hath virtue scars to heal. 
 
 And beauty weds gray Time? " 
 
 He Speaks 
 
 Good wizard ! Thus he weaves his spell. 
 Yet, charm he twenty times as well. 
 
 Me shall he never spur, 
 To seek again the old, green land. 
 That seems from far to stretch a hand 
 
 To sons who dream of her. 
 
 For is my England there? Ah, no. 
 Gone is my England, long ago. 
 
 Leaving me tender joys. 
 Sweet, fragrant happy-breathing names 
 Of wrinkled men and gray-haired dames, 
 
 To me still girls and boys. 
 
 With these in youth let memory stray 
 In pleasance green, where stern to-day 
 
 Works Fancy no mischance. 
 Dear pleasance — let no light invade 
 Revealing ravage Time hath made 
 
 Amid thy dim romance! 
 
 Here am I rooted. Firm and fast 
 We men take root who face the blast, 
 
 When, to the desert come. 
 We stand where none before have stood 
 And braving tempest, drought, and flood, 
 
 Fight Nature for a home.
 
 A Colonist in His Garden 249 
 
 Now, when the fight is o'er, what man, 
 What wrestler, who in manhood's span 
 
 Hath won so stern a fall, 
 Who, matched against the desert's power, 
 Hath made the wilderness to flower, 
 
 Can turn, forsaking all? 
 
 Yet that my heart to England cleaves 
 This garden tells with blooms and leaves 
 
 In old familiar throng. 
 And smells, sweet English, every one. 
 And English turf to tread upon. 
 
 And English blackbird's song. 
 
 " No art? " Who serve an art more great 
 Than we, rough architects of state 
 
 With the old earth at strife ? 
 " No colour? " On the silent waste 
 In pigments not to be effaced. 
 
 We paint the hues of life. 
 
 " A land without a past? " Nay, nay. 
 I saw it, forty years this day, 
 
 — Nor man, nor beast, nor tree, 
 Wide, empty plains where shadows pass 
 Blown by the wind o'er whispering grass 
 
 Whose sigh crept after me. 
 
 Now when at midnight round my doors 
 The gale through sheltering branches roars. 
 
 What is it to the might 
 Of the mad gorge-wind that o'erthrew 
 My camp — the first I pitched — and blew 
 
 Our tents into the night? 
 
 Mine is the vista where the blue 
 
 And white-capped mountains close the view. 
 
 Each tapering cypress there 
 At planting in these hands was borne. 
 Small, shivering seedlings and forlorn. 
 
 When all the plain was bare !
 
 250 The Passing of the Forest 
 
 Skies without music^ mute through time, 
 Now hear the skylark's rippUng climb 
 
 Challenge their loftier dome. 
 And hark ! A song of gardens floats, 
 Rills, gushes clear — the self-same notes 
 
 Your thrushes flute at Home. 
 
 See, T have poured o'er plain and hill 
 Gold open-handed, wealth that will 
 
 Win children's children's smiles, 
 — Autumnal glories, glowing leaves, 
 And aureate flowers, and warmth of sheaves, 
 
 Mid weary pastoral miles. 
 
 Yonder my poplars, burning gold. 
 Flare in tall rows of torches bold. 
 
 Spire beyond kindling spire. 
 Then raining gold round silver stem 
 Soft birches gleam. Outflaming them 
 
 My oaks take ruddier fire. 
 
 And with my flowers about her spread 
 (None brighter than her shining head). 
 
 The lady of my close, 
 My daughter, walks in girlhood fair. 
 Friend, could I rear in England's air 
 
 A sweeter English rose? 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE FOREST 
 
 All glory cannot vanish from the hills. 
 
 Their strength remains, their stature of command, 
 Their flush of colour ere calm twilight stills 
 
 Day's clamour and the sea-wind cools the land. 
 Refreshed when rain-clouds swell a thousand rills. 
 
 Ancient of days, in green old age they stand 
 In grandeur that can never know decay 
 Though from their flanks men strip the woods away.
 
 The Passing of the Forest 251 
 
 But thin their vesture now — the restless grass, 
 Bending and dancing as the breeze goes by, 
 
 Catching quick gleams and cloudy shades that pass. 
 As running seas reflect a wind-stirred sky, 
 
 And lordlier their forest raiment was 
 
 From crown to feet that clothed them royally, 
 
 Shielding their mysteries from the glare of day, 
 
 Ere the dark woods were reft and torn away. 
 
 Well may these plundered and insulted kings, 
 
 Stripped of their robes, despoiled, uncloaked, discrowned. 
 
 Draw down the clouds with white enfolding wings, 
 And soft aerial fleece to wrap them round. 
 
 To hide the scars that every season brings, 
 
 Black smirch of fire, the landslip's gaping wound; 
 
 Well may they shroud their heads in mantle gray. 
 
 Since from their brows the leaves were plucked away ! 
 
 Gone is the forest world, its wealth of life. 
 
 Its thrusting, climbing, coiling, strangling race, 
 
 Creeper with creeper, bush with bush at strife. 
 Writhing and warring for a breathing space; 
 
 Below the thicket, tangled rankness rife, 
 
 Aloft, tree columns, shafts of stateliest grace. 
 
 Gone are the forest wrestlers. None might stay; 
 
 Giant and dwarf alike have passed away. 
 
 Gone are the forest birds, arboreal things. 
 
 Eaters of honey, honey-sweet of song, 
 The tui, and the bell-bird — he who sings 
 
 That brief, rich music we would fain prolong. 
 Gone the wood-pigeon's sudden whirr of wings. 
 
 The robin, quaintly bold, unused to wrong. 
 Wild, harmless, hamadryad creatures, they 
 Lived with their trees, and died, and passed away. 
 
 And with the birds, the flowers, too, are gone 
 That bloomed aloft, ethereal, stars of light, 
 
 The clematis, the kowhai, like ripe corn, 
 
 Russet, though all the hills in green were dight; 
 
 The rata, draining from its tree forlorn 
 
 Rich life-blood for its crimson blossoms bright, 
 
 Red glory of the gorges, well-a-day ! 
 
 Fled is that splendour, dead and passed away.
 
 252 The Passing of the Forest 
 
 Lost is the scent of resinous sharp pines^ 
 
 Of wood fresh cut, clean-smelling, for the hearth, 
 
 Of smoke from burning logs, in wavering lines 
 Softening the air with blue, of cool, damp earth 
 
 And dead trunks fallen among coiling vines. 
 
 Brown, mouldering, moss-coated. Round the girth 
 
 Of the green land, the winds brought hill and bay 
 
 Fragrance far-borne, now faded all away. 
 
 Lost is the sense of sudden, sweet escape 
 
 From dust of stony plain, from glare and gale. 
 
 When the feet tread where shade and silence drape 
 The stems with sleep below the leafy veil, 
 
 Or where a pleasant rustling stirs each shape 
 Creeping with whisperings that rise and fail 
 
 Through lab}Tinths half-ht by chequered play 
 
 Of light on golden moss now burned away. 
 
 Gone are the forest tracks, where oft we rode 
 
 Under the silver fern-fronds climbing slow. 
 In cool, green tunnels, though fierce noontide glowed 
 
 And glittered on the tree-tops far below. 
 There, mid the stillness of the mountain road, 
 
 We just could hear the valley river flow. 
 Whose voice through many a windless summer day 
 
 Haunted the silent woods, now passed away. 
 
 Drinking fresh odours, spicy wafts that blew. 
 We watched the glassy, quivering air asleep, 
 
 Midway between tall cliffs that taller grew 
 Above the unseen torrent calling deep; 
 
 Till, like a sword, cleaving the foliage through. 
 The waterfall flashed foaming down the steep: 
 
 White, Hving water, cooling with its spray 
 
 Dense plumes of fragile fern, now scorched away. 
 
 The axe bites deep; the rushing fire streams bright. 
 
 Clear, beautiful, and fierce it speeds for man, 
 The master, set to change and stem to smite. 
 
 Bronzed pioneer of nations. Ay, but scan 
 The ruined beauty wasted in a night. 
 
 The blackened wonder God alone could plan, 
 And builds not twice ! A bitter price to pay 
 Is this for Progress- beauty swept away. 
 
 W. P. Reeves*
 
 Pohutukawa 253 
 
 THE LOW LINTEL 1 
 
 An Austral churchyard^ very calm and still; 
 
 It might be some forgotten village fane, 
 So low the lintel, weather-worn the sill, 
 
 The narrow windows showing many a pane. 
 
 Here Selwyn spoke; and down this quiet aisle. 
 In troublous times, before these placid years. 
 
 Imperial soldiers entered rank and file 
 With vivid uniform and jangling spears. 
 
 Now Selwyn sleeps, and Cameron's men have passed; 
 
 The graves are green, the roses blossom free; 
 From opal hills and gloomy caverns vast 
 
 Comes in the requiem music of the sea. 
 
 Hard by the gate a paltry tablet stands 
 
 For sea-woe in the times that lie afar; 
 By yonder cliffs the Orpheus with all hands 
 
 Trapped to her doom upon the seething bar. 
 
 Full many a tale has reached its tragic close, 
 Full many a wave has snatched its hapless prey, 
 
 Since there were gathered here to long repose; 
 Their comrades sleeping in the fatal bay. 
 
 This old-time sorrow is a roughened scar 
 Beneath a casual hand that scarcely heeds; 
 
 That new-made grave beneath the evening star ? 
 Forbear! Nor touch a recent wound that bleeds. 
 
 POHUTUKAWA 
 
 'Tis not the holly red I sing 
 
 'Neath Albion's snowy skies; 
 Nor yet the rose that blushes sweet 
 For lustrous Persian eyes; 
 St. Peter's Anglicaa Churchyard, Onehunga, Auckland.
 
 254 Pohutukawa 
 
 Nor yet the stately palm that waves 
 
 O'er Asiatic dome: 
 But the dear old native Christmas flower 
 
 Of my New Zealand home. 
 
 O'er-arched with blue in golden days 
 
 On many a cliff and bight^ 
 With gnarled branches far outspread, 
 
 Bedecked with tassels bright. 
 I love thee well, I love thee well, 
 
 Pohutukawa- tree ; 
 From infancy a subtle spell 
 
 Thy blossom cast o'er me. 
 
 Is it because I love the sea? — 
 
 The sea thou lovest so, 
 Oft bending o'er until the depths 
 
 Reflect thy crimson glow; 
 Or mad and merry little waves 
 
 Veil thee with silver spray, 
 Dancing in gayest elfin sport 
 
 On some fair Christmas Day? 
 
 If thou hadst bloomed on classic soil 
 
 Where Sappho stirred the soul; 
 Or by the lone, wild Orcades 
 
 Where Ossian's echoes roll; 
 Or even in the good old land 
 
 When Royal Alfred sang, 
 And baron's hall and lady's bower 
 
 With merry music rang. 
 
 Thy fame had reached to other shores, 
 
 And men had talked of thee, 
 Our own Pohutukawa 
 
 Beside the summer sea. 
 For worthy art thou meed of praise 
 
 As myrtle-tree or lime, 
 As olive-tree or sandalwood 
 
 Of cloudless Orient clime. 
 
 But far amid the ocean wide, 
 And far adown the days,
 
 Manuka 255 
 
 Where shall we find the voice, the harp, 
 
 To sound abroad thy praise? 
 And yet right well we love to see 
 
 Thy plumy, rich array, 
 tree of sunny mem'ries 
 
 And southern Christmas Day! 
 
 The green Karaka's golden fruit 
 
 Is ripening in the sun; 
 Red Rata ^ wreathes the Kauri 
 
 Where creeks in shadow run. 
 The white clematis long ago 
 
 Hath lost her starry flowers; 
 Pohutukawa's crimson plumes 
 
 Must deck our Christmas bowersg 
 
 MANUKA 
 
 Acres on acres of low, hilly, poor land 
 
 Is the Manuka's peculiar domain; 
 \cres on acres Hke heath on the moorland, 
 
 White with its blossom, like snow on the plaing 
 
 Acres on acres to battle a path through. 
 
 Growing o'erhead like the tall pampas grass, 
 
 Wirily branched with prickly foliage; 
 Woe worth the day when the stranger shall pass 1 
 
 Acres on acres, and acres on acres, 
 
 Fire hath swept clean through the length of the land; 
 But the Manuka will ne'er be demolished 
 
 Until old Neptune comes over the strand. 
 
 Acres on acres like heath o' the moorland, 
 
 White with its blossom, like snow on the plain ; 
 
 For the fair sun-lighted land of the Maori 
 Is the Manuka's peculiar domain. 
 
 1 Wild vine.
 
 256 My Little Maori Axe of Jade 
 
 MV LITTLE MAORI AXE OF JADE 
 
 I HEAR, I hear the wild wind blow 
 
 Adown the gorge a rover free; 
 It hustles round the virgin snow, 
 
 And jars the blue lakes' reverie, 
 Till foaming torrents madly flee 
 
 From dizzy uplands, sore dismayed — 
 A stone lay there that came to be 
 
 My little Maori axe of jade. 
 
 I hear, I hear the korero, 
 
 Beside the prostrate kauri tree, 
 I see the iwis come and go. 
 
 Year after year right patiently. 
 With shouts of labour, songs of glee. 
 
 The mighty war canoe is made 
 Fit for the sea, with tools like thee, 
 
 My little Maori axe of jade. 
 
 I hear, I hear dread sounds of woe, 
 
 The haka warriors bend the knee. 
 Like crouching tigers on the foe 
 
 Impelled at once in fierce melee; 
 Nor Nordenfeldt, nor Martini, 
 
 Nor curious Damascus blade — 
 Yet heaps on heaps of slain — Ah, me ! 
 
 My little Maori axe of jade. 
 
 Etivoy 
 
 Chief, on the warpath cap-^-pie, 
 I conjure up thy harmless shade; 
 
 The crystal where weird sights I see, 
 My little Maori axe of jade.
 
 Comparison 257 
 
 COMPARISON 
 
 The days of our years, the days of our years, 
 Alike with their record of smiles and tears, 
 Advance and recede like waves on the shore; 
 Engulfed in the past we behold them no more. 
 
 And some days are like to the deep sea wave 
 That often, caressingly, gently doth lave 
 The shell-strewn sand, and, e'er gliding away. 
 Makes pohshed and gleaming each pebble-stone gray, 
 
 So glad days roll on o'er the strand of time. 
 When happiness ringeth a sweet, clear chime. 
 And the heart unfolds like some fair sea-flower 
 'Neath the sunbeams that fall in a golden shower. 
 
 But let summer wane, in the autumn eve 
 How sadly the dark sunless waters heave! 
 Unsparkling and cold they creep in with a moan, 
 And retire, leaving darker each rock and stone. 
 
 So seasons of trouble with sorrow rife 
 Approach in this changeable human life; 
 The bravest oft shrink from a nameless pain, 
 For heart-wounds may heal, but the scars remain.: 
 
 How wildly the storm-winds in winter rave, 
 How sadly they wail o'er the sailor's grave ! 
 When the hurricane rages, 'mid lightning-lit gloom. 
 Oh, many a gallant barque meets her doom ! 
 
 As in the sad night of bereavement and woe, 
 When the mourner his impotent frailty doth know, 
 In the deafening turbulent surge of despair 
 The buffeted soul can scarce think a prayer. 
 
 But, oh ! in the silence of dawning to be. 
 When the sunrise illumines the wonderful sea. 
 And Ufe-full each bright-crested wavelet appears. 
 The glory and gladsomeness banish all fears. 
 
 R
 
 258 
 
 The Moa 
 
 And such may the mom of eternity be, 
 When the shadows of time and mortality flee; 
 A life bright, unending as night's starry spheres. 
 Begin when we've numbered the days of our years. 
 
 Margaret A. SiNCLAiRg 
 
 THE MOA 
 
 In forest deeps, where the sunlight creeps 
 
 And struggles dimly through, 
 The veil of leaves, which Nature weaves. 
 
 And keeps for ever new; 
 Where the rota vine to the graceful pine 
 
 Clings with a Judas kiss; 
 Where blooming flowers make fitting bowers 
 
 In a fairer world than this; 
 
 Where the ferny sod, by man untrod, 
 
 Is tender, green, and soft; 
 Where the Weka might raise her curious gaze 
 
 To the Tui that sings aloft; 
 Where the cataract shakes the woods and wakes 
 
 The echoes of rock and glen — 
 In the cool dark shade of a punga glade. 
 
 The Moa has made his den ! 
 
 In the deepest grot of this secret spot 
 
 Does the Moa choose to dwell; 
 And whitened bones, round circled stones. 
 
 Of his slaughtered victims tell. 
 Now harsh, shrill cries of rage arise 
 
 High over the cataract's boom, 
 For the mighty bird has a footstep heard. 
 
 And he sounds the huntsman's doom. 
 
 Brave Maori ! Here thy club and spear 
 
 Are weapons weak and vain; 
 The feathered foe has laid thee low, 
 
 Thou ne'er shalt hunt again:
 
 Tahiti 259 
 
 The Moa's young shall pluck thy tongue 
 
 Warm from its quivering root, 
 And thy bones, picked bare, shall to men declare 
 
 The victory of the Brute. 
 
 TAHITI 
 
 There is a land that lieth 
 
 Amid the Southern Sea, 
 Where the soft zephyr sigheth, 
 
 Across the odorous lea; 
 Where smiles a radiant heaven 
 
 On seas of constant calm; 
 Where added charms are given 
 
 Of orange tree and palm; 
 Where rise basaltic mountains 
 
 With fadeless foliage crowned, 
 And leaping, sparkling fountains 
 
 Spread melody around, 
 
 A gentle race there dwelleth 
 
 Within the land so fair, 
 Whose happy laughter telleth 
 
 Of bosoms free from care; 
 Where merry youths and maidens 
 
 In peace their years employ — 
 Their voices join in cadence. 
 
 Their life is love and joy; 
 The grace of form and feature 
 
 No ugly fashions mar; 
 The paragons of Nature 
 
 These gentle people are! 
 
 How shall I tell the glories 
 
 Of that bright Orient clime. 
 Whose beauties shame the stories 
 
 Brought down from olden time 
 Of Asiatic splendour — 
 
 Of scenes by Art made bright; 
 Of maidens warm and tender. 
 
 Whose eyes have Love's own light?
 
 26o Slumber Song 
 
 How shall my feeble fingers 
 
 Portray, with futile art, 
 That nameless grace which lingers 
 
 Like fragrance round my heart? 
 
 Not, as in fable olden. 
 
 From azure fields above 
 Descends that City Golden, 
 
 Where all is peace and love; 
 From seas of pearl and coral 
 
 This Island rises fair. 
 While beauteous offerings floral 
 
 Adorn her glossy hair, 
 lovely Papeete, 
 
 Of earthly scenes the pride ! 
 glorious Tahiti, 
 
 Old Ocean's chosen bride. 
 
 J. LiDDELL Kelly. 
 
 SLUMBER SONG 
 
 Now the golden day is ending, 
 See the quiet night descending, 
 Stealing, stealing all the colours, all the roses from the west. 
 Safe at home each bird is keeping 
 Watch o'er nest and children sleeping, 
 Dreaming tender dreams of sunshine, sleeping warm, for 
 sleep is best. 
 Sleep, then, sleep, my little daughter. 
 Sleep to sound of running water. 
 Singing, singing through the twilight, singing little things to 
 rest. 
 
 Down beside the river flowing. 
 Where the broom and flax are growing, 
 Little breezes whisper gently, as night's music softly swells; 
 And, like bells of Elfin pealing, 
 Lonely through tl>e shadows stealing,
 
 The Taniwha 261 
 
 Tinkling, tinkling through the twilight comes the sound of 
 cattle bells. 
 Sleep, then, sleep, my little daughter, 
 Cattle bells, and wind, and water. 
 Weaving, weaving chains of slumber, cast about thee Dream- 
 land's spells. 
 
 Mary H. Poynter. 
 
 THE TANIWHA 
 
 I WILL tell you, my sons and daughters. 
 Of the monster that dwells in the waters. 
 
 The Taniwha fearful and fierce, 
 Who is clad from head to tail 
 In a coat of scaly mail 
 
 No club or spear can pierce. 
 
 The Taniwha ! Ah, he is longer 
 Than a war canoe, and stronger 
 
 Than the strongest shark or whale; 
 At his mouth of dreadful size. 
 And the gleam of his fiery eyes, 
 
 The bravest heart might quail. 
 
 Have I seen him? Nay, my daughter; 
 But I've seen the troubled water, 
 
 When he lashed it while in rage. 
 The tohungas^ wise and old. 
 Have seen him, and have told 
 
 Of his deeds from age to age. 
 
 Have you seen the strong man swimming 
 In the rivers' waters brimming, 
 
 Sink with a crs^ of pain? 
 Have you seen the staunch canoe 
 Go out o'er the waters blue 
 
 And ne'er return again? 
 
 Have you heard, in the eerie gloaming. 
 Sounds as of spirits roaming 
 Through the vaulted paths below? 
 ^ Priests.
 
 262 The Woman in the Moon 
 
 Have you seen the waters boil 
 Through the crackhng, quaking soil, 
 With a wailing sound of woe? 
 
 Those sights and sounds bewild'ring 
 From the Taniwha come, my children; 
 
 For the Atua ^ gives him power 
 To roam from his secret den, 
 To prey on the sons of men, 
 
 And slaughter them and devour. 
 
 Then pray ye, my sons and daughters, 
 To the mighty god of waters 
 
 That ye be not untimely killed; 
 And a choice food-offering take 
 To yon rock in the lonely lake, 
 
 That the Taniwha's wrath be stilled. 
 
 J. LiDDELL KeLLY.2 
 
 THE WOMAN IN THE MOON 
 
 (^A Maori Legend) 
 
 High in the dull blue heaven the round-faced moon, 
 
 Paling the twinkling stars, looks calmly down 
 
 On Rona hast'ning from the slumb'ring town 
 
 Towards the lake — her path nigh bright as noon — 
 
 To fetch fresh water which her mother craves, 
 
 She bears a vessel: now she stays a space, 
 
 To view the mirrored moon's reflected face; 
 
 But as she stoops she falls into the waves, 
 
 Misled by the deceptive moon's pale ray: 
 
 She rising curses his illusive light. 
 
 Then from the heaven swoops down the God of night. 
 
 And seizing Rona, bears her quick away. 
 
 Though parted from her friends, she's still in sight. 
 
 For in the moon she will be seen alway.^ 
 
 Alexander Bathgate. 
 
 1 Spirit. 
 
 * This is given as an aged Maori's description of the mj'thical monster, 
 the taniwha, which figures largely in Maori tradition and nomenclature. 
 ' Other versions in which Rona is a man.
 
 The Legend of Hinemoa 263 
 
 THE LEGEND OF HINEMOA 
 
 Hearken, friends, to this quaint idyll, 
 From the love-lore of the Maori, 
 From the ancient native records, 
 Of the maiden Hinemoa, 
 Of the Rotorua beauty, 
 Of the beautiful Wahine: 
 Straight, yet lissome as the sapling 
 Growing graceful by the river; 
 Hinemoa with the fine eyes 
 Dark as midnight's gloom unfathomed. 
 While a star of light illumed them — 
 Eyes that drew the gaze of others ; 
 Held them, as the old Tohunga, 
 But in sweeter thraldom held them. 
 By their spell of sweeter magic. 
 Maiden with the midnight tresses 
 Glossy as the Tui's plumage; 
 With the lithe form and the fleet foot; 
 With the witching smile revealing 
 Milk-white teeth, 'twixt lips of coral. 
 This alluring child of Nature 
 Stole the hearts of all the young men. 
 Won the love of all the warriors; 
 Left her sisters of the Hapu, 
 Left her sisters all behind her. 
 While they strove for admiration. 
 She obtained it without effort. 
 Beauty's undisputed birthright. 
 Sunbeam of the Raupo Whare,^ 
 Queen of maidens, gay, alluring, 
 In a land of merry maidens. 
 Her land called Te Ika a Maui — 
 Where the skies are blue in summer. 
 Where the winter passes swiftly. 
 Where the mountains rise majestic. 
 Where the vales are green as emerald, 
 Where the lakes are gems of turquoise, 
 1 Dwelling.
 
 264 The Legend of Hiiiemoa 
 
 And the falls shower glittering diamond 
 Where the rivers, like fond children, 
 Hasten toward their father Ocean, 
 Island home of Hinemoa — 
 Where the Bush is grand and gloomy, 
 With the massive stately Kauri, 
 With the Matai and Totara, 
 With the Kowhai and the Hinau, 
 With the Rata and the Rimu —   
 Twining Rata, drooping Rimu; 
 Densely grown, with Rangiora 
 Showing silvery in the distance, 
 When the spring winds hurry through it. 
 And the Raupo by the river 
 Bends its thousand, thousand rushes 
 As the morning wind sweeps o'er it. 
 When the creamy Toi-toi 
 Waves its soft and plumy feathers, 
 Downward drooping o'er the Raupo. 
 Such the swamps where moorhens wander, 
 Where the wingless Kiwis wander 
 Through the silent starlit watches; 
 Such the swamps where lurk the spirits, 
 Good and evil spirits also: 
 So the sire of Hinemoa 
 Taught his little dark-eyed daughter; 
 Taught her, too, the chanting mournful 
 Sung to ward away the Taipo ^ — 
 Sung to ward away the spirits 
 Lurking in the Bush or flax-swamp; 
 For the spirits flee from music 
 As the wild beast shuns the camp-fire. 
 Such the lore, and such the legends, 
 Hinemoa heard in childhood, 
 In her own sequestered Hapu '■^ 
 On the shores of Rotorua — 
 Rotorua famed in story, 
 Rotorua praised in poem. 
 Giving back the blue of heaven, 
 Flashing back the golden sunbeams. 
 Murmuring softly in the twilight, 
 ' The nether world. " Family.
 
 The Legend of Hinemoa 265 
 
 Mirror for the constellations, 
 
 Southern Cross and bright Orion; 
 
 Beautiful in summer moonlight, 
 
 Fairy, dreamlike in the moonlight; 
 
 With its island and its cascades, 
 
 With its depths and sandy shallows, 
 
 With its terraces and geysers. 
 
 With its fringe of softest verdure, 
 
 Fringe of varied fern and Nikau. 
 
 In this realm of scenes entrancing 
 
 Dwelt the maiden Hinemoa, 
 
 Watched the dawning of the daylight 
 
 From the little Raupo Whare, 
 
 Watched the sun peep o'er the mountain, 
 
 Kiss the vale, and leave it smiling, 
 
 Glint across the lake and level. 
 
 Hinemoa heard the birds sing 
 
 In the Bush all dark and dewy. 
 
 Heard the shining cuckoo's welcome 
 
 To the tender flowers of springtime — 
 
 Pretty Pipiwharauroa ! 
 
 Fostered by Te Riroriro; 
 
 Heard the long-tailed swallow also, 
 
 Heard the Te Kohoperoa, 
 
 In the winter-time a lizard. 
 
 In the summer-time a swallow, 
 
 Say the ancient Maori legends. 
 
 Say the treasured old traditions. 
 
 Hinemoa heard the birds sing 
 
 In the Bush all dark and dewy. 
 
 Heard the Tui and the bell-bird, 
 
 Heard the bell-bird's liquid music. 
 
 Heard the Korimako calling — 
 
 Just as sweet, more faintly, softly. 
 
 Breathed her lover's flute at evening, 
 
 Tutanekai's flute melodious. 
 
 Tutanekai's tribe and people 
 
 Lived not on the ample mainland. 
 
 But upon the little island 
 
 In the lake of Rotorua. 
 
 Tutanekai of the island 
 
 Loved the beauty of the mainland.
 
 2 66 The Legend of Hinemoa 
 
 With a love that lives in story. 
 
 But between them lay deep waters — 
 
 Deeps of jealousy and envy: 
 
 For the people of the mainland 
 
 Hated those upon the island, 
 
 Came between fair Hinemoa 
 
 And her lover Tutanekai. 
 
 So the lovers met in secret, 
 
 On this fashion met they nightly. 
 
 When the darkness softly shrouded 
 
 Lake and mountain, rock and geyser, 
 
 Evening's mantle thrown around them; 
 
 Then the quick ears of the maiden 
 
 Heard a little strain of music. 
 
 Heard a plaintive strain of music 
 
 Borne across the listening water. 
 
 From the little lonely island. 
 
 (Love, inventive, laughs at locksmiths — 
 
 Laughs at lakes, and every hindrance.) 
 
 From the mainland swiftly, softly, 
 
 Issued then upon the waters. 
 
 With a noiseless, dreamy motion. 
 
 With a cautious, gliding motion, 
 
 Hinemoa's barque of Kauri, 
 
 Braving darkness, braving danger. 
 
 Fear absorbed in love all-powerful; 
 
 Nightly the intrepid beauty 
 
 Answered Tutanekai's signal. 
 
 But one night the signal sounded 
 
 Often, often, louder, fainter, 
 
 O'er the lake of Rotonia, 
 
 O'er the hushed and listening water. 
 
 Tutanekai watched and waited 
 
 Long, and longer, for his loved one. 
 
 Breathed a strain of dulcet music. 
 
 Hushed the strain of dulcet music, 
 
 Listening for the dip of paddles 
 
 In the Rotorua waters, 
 
 In the lake of Rotorua; 
 
 Tried to pierce the veil of darkness, 
 
 Tried to see young Hinemoa, 
 
 Tried to see her boat of Kauri ;
 
 The Legend of Hinemoa 267 
 
 But, in answer to his music, 
 
 He but heard the Morepork, Morepork, 
 
 Heard the owl still calling Morepork 
 
 From the dense Bush, from the mainland. 
 
 When, all suddenly, beside him. 
 
 Suddenly, and close beside him, 
 
 On the margin of the island, 
 
 On the white beach of the island, 
 
 From the shadowy Rotorua, 
 
 From the lake called Rotorua, 
 
 Rose the beauteous Hinemoa, 
 
 Rose the dauntless Hinemoa; 
 
 Rose this feminine Leander, 
 
 Happier than poor Leander; 
 
 Rose this water-wraith, this vision — 
 
 Fairer than the famous mermaid, 
 
 Like a water-nymph or Naiad ; 
 
 Stood before him in her beauty. 
 
 Shy, and graceful as the white crane. 
 
 Beautiful as the young wild hawk, 
 
 By her presence on the island 
 Telling more than words could ever 
 
 All the love within her young heart. 
 
 Had it not o'ercome her weakness, 
 
 Overcome her woman weakness, 
 
 Overcome her fears and fancies. 
 
 Nerved her with a desperate courage, 
 
 When her lover's signal sounded, 
 
 And she found that friends and parents 
 
 Had removed canoe and paddles, 
 
 Left her none to cross the lake with ? 
 
 Then the dauntless Maori maiden 
 
 Lost no time in useless wailing, 
 
 Quickly made a simple life-belt, 
 
 Made of empty gourds a life-belt, 
 
 Girt it silently alDout her. 
 
 Left the mainland in the darkness 
 
 For the island in the darkness; 
 
 Boldly swam across the water. 
 
 Swam across the gloomy water, 
 
 O'er the mighty Rotorua, 
 
 O'er the lake of Rotorua,
 
 2 68 The Legend of Hincmoa 
 
 Guided onl)- by the music, 
 Hincmoa swam on bravely 
 Through the dark and heaving water, 
 Till she reached the lonely island, 
 Reached the Rotorua island; 
 Then uprose before her lover 
 In her innocence and beauty, 
 In the silence 'mid the shadows — 
 Gladly welcomed, fondly vested 
 In a woven mat of feathers. 
 In a mat of golden feathers ; 
 Then conducted to his Whare 
 His true wife to be henceforward. 
 Drama fair of Rotorua, 
 Drama of the days departed, 
 Of the beauteous Hinemoa 
 And the noble Tutanekai, 
 From the love-lore of the Maori, 
 From the ancient Maori legends, 
 Told by chiefs with tattooed faces. 
 Told by lithesome dusky maidens. 
 Told by youths of manly grandeur, 
 Who count backwards in their lineage 
 To the noble Tutanekai 
 And the peerless Hinemoa. 
 
 Margaret A. Sinclair.
 
 SOUTH AFRICAN POETRY
 
 SOUTH AFRICAN POETRY 
 
 )) 
 
 1909 
 
 A VISION AND A CRY 
 
 I SAW thee set upon a height, 
 Midmost a wondrous summer night. 
 Resting an elbow on thy knee, 
 Wistful, thine eyes turned towards the sea; 
 And Uke sierras black and vast 
 The ranges round thy feet were cast; 
 A snake of silver, dim and slow. 
 Followed each river's weary flow, 
 While far behind the ranges' walls, 
 Rose the dull thunder of the Falls; 
 And far beneath thy sandal' d feet. 
 Clusters of fireflies seemed to beat — 
 As where some Uttle dorps were seen 
 By candle-dip or kerosene; 
 Now, ever, Uke a brilliant smoke, 
 The cities by the coast awoke; 
 A glare that burned Uke some red brand. 
 Masked the night labour on the Rand, 
 While veld and city, mine and sea. 
 Commingled in this poesie: 
 Lo, we that reap the grain. 
 And we that tend the kine, 
 And we that see the rain 
 And sunshine fill the vine. 
 
 And we that take the drill within the deepest mine, 
 For gem whose burning thrill 
 Throbs in the heart hke wine; 
 For gold to store or spend — 
 (Or break your heart and mine) — 
 And we who take and tend 
 Whate'er the fates assign; 
 271
 
 272 South Africa 
 
 Whate'er our duties be, 
 
 By veld or mine or sea, 
 
 This boon we crave of thee: 
 
 Let all the frontiers go^ 
 
 With all the devil's woe. 
 
 Let our Five Nations glow, 
 
 In one bright diadem, whate'er the cries, 
 
 The lesser issues, or the sacrifice. 
 
 John Runcie. 
 
 SOUTH AFRICA 
 
 All that she gave us was tears, 
 Sorrow of heart and of head ; 
 
 Land of bewildering years, 
 Woman of passion and dread. 
 
 Others were fairer than she, 
 
 Summer was sweet in their eyes. 
 
 Kindly their laughter and free, 
 Women to love and to prize. 
 
 Yet we approved not their worth, 
 Man after man in his mood 
 
 Turned to this creature of earth. 
 Sullen and savage and rude; 
 
 Gave her his heart for a toy. 
 Her without pity or ruth, 
 
 Gave her to build or destroy 
 
 Hopes and ambitions and youth. 
 
 Careless she took them and gave 
 
 Terrible gifts in return; 
 Thirst and the night for a grave; 
 
 Death in the spaces that burn. 
 
 What is her charm and her power? 
 
 Scornful she takes of our best, 
 Makes us the sport of an hour. 
 
 Flings us aside with the rest.
 
 South Africa 273 
 
 Uncomprehended, unknown, 
 
 Still she attracts and allures; 
 Still on the steps of her throne 
 
 Blood of her victims endures. 
 
 Something she has that compels 
 Wonder and worship through pain, 
 
 Vainly her lover rebels, 
 
 Striving to loosen his chain. 
 
 Lo, she is stronger than he ! 
 
 Great is her magic and wide, 
 Stretching its spell o'er the sea, 
 
 Drawing him back to her side. 
 
 Many have wooed her with heat. 
 
 Proud in their manhood and strength, 
 
 Only to reel in defeat. 
 
 Shattered and broken at length. 
 
 Ah ! will she never be kind ? 
 
 Is there no man that shall prove 
 Strong to embrace her and find 
 
 Sweetly the face of her love? 
 
 Surely the heart of her keeps 
 Splendour of passion, and dear 
 
 Wealth of affection, that sleeps 
 Mute till her master appear. 
 
 Then shall she bear to her lord 
 
 Children of glorious breed. 
 Warriors wielding the sword. 
 
 Statesmen with laws for her needj 
 
 Then shall the branches of peace 
 Prosper and spread in the land, 
 
 Commerce expand and increase. 
 Factories rise at command.
 
 274 A Song in Season 
 
 Then shall her poets essay 
 
 Wonderful thoughts of her dreams, 
 
 Brush of her painters portray 
 Hints of her exquisite gleams. 
 
 Virgin since time was begun, 
 Who shall attain to this bride? 
 
 None hath possessed her, not one 
 Touched the deep heart of her pride. 
 
 F. G. Walrond. 
 
 A SONG IN SEASON 
 
 I HEARD one say: Ye have so little faith 
 
 In this great land, because of years grown lean, 
 
 That straightway in a gust of wailing breath, 
 Your words come harsh and mean. 
 
 Fulfilled in aeons lost to seer or scribe. 
 
 Your harvest home was led through rock and loam, 
 God swept aside each dark and murdering tribe, 
 
 For men to make a home. 
 
 From war and tumult ye have lain forspent, 
 
 Mouthing at quibbles which in smiles may cease; 
 
 And turning back along the path ye went 
 Ye drown the eyes of Peace. 
 
 By grain or gold or gem shall ye fulfil 
 That destiny enscroUed on rock and mire ? 
 
 Nay, not by these, but by one common will 
 That may not halt or tire. 
 
 Some cry a curse on the golden dust. 
 
 Holding it leagued with evil for our bane; 
 
 So, too, are all things rank with pride and lust. 
 So, too, are all things vain. 
 
 Roar on, Rand ! by day or red-lit night, 
 I see men build, I hear the roar of trade; 
 
 Even so the foundry furnace, wide and white. 
 Shall win the toilers' bread.
 
 Little Thornback 275 
 
 I see the sluices opening far and near 
 On famished spaces of the wan Karroo, 
 
 And little dorps come closer year by year 
 With fields and orchards new; 
 
 Even so the far-led water shall attest 
 
 The mine's wide largesse to the desert brown, 
 
 And sweet lucerne against the fanner's breast 
 Shall win his beeves renown. 
 
 Blue hills a-dream in hazes of the noon, 
 
 Wide silent spaces of the lonely sun, 
 Wan pastures calling for their only boon, 
 
 And, oh, so much undone ! 
 
 So much undone ! The decades drifting by. 
 
 Gather the futile dust of idle days. 
 While underneath your blue and matchless sky 
 
 The land's smile prayer always. 
 
 Bind closer race to race and state to state; 
 
 Go forward, one in purpose, faith, and aim ; 
 They live the best who labour on, elate. 
 
 Through sacrifice and shame. 
 
 By stamp and plough and furnace ye may wake 
 A vast and federate land to nobler life; 
 
 But what is all your work unless ye make 
 An end of racial strife.? 
 
 LITTLE THORNBACK 
 
 Amid the wind and spindrift on that historic day, 
 
 Beneath the Blaauwberg Mountains the stricken Haarlem . 
 
 Was ever gale so fraught with fate again in Table Bay ? 
 
 They found the cool sweet water, they saw the land was good; 
 Above them swung the splendid sun, o'er mountain, plain, 
 
 and wood. 
 And the spirit of the soil cried out, and lo ! they understood.
 
 276 Paul Krugcr 
 
 Plere was the land for willing hands, for harvests yet unborn, 
 For goodly vine, and pear and plum, and yellow wheat and 
 
 corn; 
 And they passed the word to homing ships and home the word 
 
 was borne. 
 
 And who looms now across the page of primal storm and 
 stress ? 
 
 Van Riebeck, " Little Thomback," come to rule the wilder- 
 ness, 
 
 To raise the fort, and build the hut, to guide and ban and 
 bless ; 
 
 Quick-tempered, keen of eye and ear, the little doctor seems. 
 In belted coat and buckled shoe, more of romance and 
 
 dreams — 
 A man set out in some rich light that by an altar streams. 
 
 Great days were those of conquest, of sacrifice and wrath. 
 The lion roared by garden gates, the leopard watched the 
 
 path 
 And the vanished pools of Capetown where the lumbering 
 
 hippos bath. 
 
 In these large days of progress the glory seems but small; 
 We have built the gleaming city o'er the old-time fort and 
 
 kraal. 
 And, behold, to the far Zambesi our flag waves over all — 
 
 Yet here the tale beginneth, whatever pride may be, 
 In affluent power and traffic from war and victory. 
 With the keen-eyed Little Thomback stepping shoreward 
 from the sea. 
 
 PAUL KRUGER 
 
 Not on these shores his bier is made, 
 He died in exile far away; 
 Old, old and weary, broken, gray. 
 
 Glad now of rest, Oom Paul is dead.
 
 Old Kimberley Days 277 
 
 Not ours to picture in this hour 
 
 His vanished dream, his humbled pride; 
 The dead sleep gently side by side, 
 
 The living dream of pride and power. 
 
 Great will of adamant, and brain 
 
 Begotten of the storm and stress 
 
 That filled the wild old wilderness, 
 And mocked at toil, and grief, and pain — 
 
 You mocked at us, and scorned our aim, 
 That, set in freedom, strives to make 
 All men as free as we, who break 
 
 All bonds that bind with hurt and shame. 
 
 No matter — all the decades go 
 
 To dusty death, and hate decays ; 
 
 Large charity outlives always 
 The little wrath of foe and foe. 
 
 Farewell, old Paul ! We too may feel 
 
 Such pride as any, that the land 
 
 Bears such as thou to take command 
 In other years of woe or weal. 
 
 OLD KIMBERLEY DAYS 
 
 The Inland Transport Company have taken down their sign ; 
 The coaching lights of Cobb and Co. are not to-day ashine. 
 
 Ye may inspan the ox or mule from Wellington again. 
 And cross the Hex in sun and dust or drenched and swamped 
 in rain. 
 
 But not in Kimberley to-day shall trek that sanguine brood : 
 Who sat and smoked and talked and slept beneath a waggon 
 hood. 
 
 The red dust flashed within their throats and baked their 
 
 flesh like clay. 
 And if the whiskey held, the Lord was gracious all the way.
 
 278 Old Kimberley Days 
 
 Not all were of the hardened palm and spatulated thumb — 
 Sign manual of the digger's craft to each prospective chum. 
 
 By kopjes bare of tree or bush and fumaced in the sun; 
 Where boulders lay with blackened flanks in lumps of twenty 
 ton — 
 
 By dongas where the snake out-poured its dozen feet of coil ; 
 And hissed against the faring foot that crumbled down the 
 soil. 
 
 So rose the callous brow of dawn, so flared the staring noon ; 
 So came the big-eyed evening star that piloted the moon. 
 
 Through stinging dust that powdered up at passing hoof or 
 
 wheel ; 
 Through flashing rain that smote the veld in many a gash and 
 
 weal — 
 
 They saw the meercat haunched beside the conical ant hill; 
 The heavy paauw's unwieldly flight, the vulture's iron bill. 
 
 Lean jackals slouching through the still and strange be- 
 jewelled gloom. 
 
 While bleating far away foretold some ewe's or wether's 
 doom. 
 
 Such vastness largely-eyed with stars, which then as now 
 
 ashine, 
 Had calcined in the world's red youth the light that gemmed 
 
 the mine. 
 
 Such vastness of the secret deeps that locked away in night 
 The " white stuff " won with pick and spade and now with 
 dynamite. 
 
 Such vastness to the slim youth's eyes from Christ's or 
 
 Magdalene's, 
 Such vastness to the wastrel's eyes grown bleered in vile 
 
 shebeens.
 
 Old Kimberley Days 279 
 
 In different wise the brown veld sloped athwart each eager 
 
 soul, 
 The folly of the stintless cup, or ease, or power, the goal. 
 
 So came the hobo of the world, the strong man and the weak; 
 The " bloke " from Seven Dials and the " toff " that rhymed 
 in Greek. 
 
 And leavened all by common toil with rocker, pick, and spade. 
 They found the grace of sympathy among the friends they 
 made. 
 
 Large-hearted to the broken chum athirst and down at heel, 
 They held no briefs from Exeter Hall against the " ne'er-do- 
 weel." 
 
 They raked no past from out the mire of half-forgotten years; 
 Du Toit's Pan road was wider then and hid away their fears. 
 
 Ah, little specks of rocker left among its curious dross; 
 
 The garnets and the crystal slag, what ruled the gain or loss ? 
 
 An awful soak in vile champagne in some tin-roofed caboose ? 
 The price of Mignon's silken gown or Renee's lacquered 
 shoes? 
 
 Or cast upon the ample pile that made the dealer stare, 
 The wise man saw the fruited hope of all his toil and care. 
 
 By flawless carats cut and set upon some bosom fair; 
 
 Or hung like stars amid the night that was some lady's hair — 
 
 The dreamer bare of arm and breast who found his dreams as 
 
 frail 
 As aureoles above his pipe, beheld his dream prevail. 
 
 In crown and sceptre flames the light the digger washed to 
 
 view. 
 And on the finger of a maid, to show that love is true. 
 
 The rocker swung for rich and poor in those rough days fore- 
 done, 
 When rich and poor at Kimberley were diggers every one.
 
 2 8o Adventure 
 
 When claims on Colesberg Kopje marked the highest grade of 
 
 " swell." 
 Who boiled his copper billy and washed his shirt as well. 
 
 From ghettos of the North and South, from Teuton coast or 
 
 vale, 
 From British shire and Latin slope they sought the digger's 
 
 Grail. 
 
 They found in mire the hidden trove or tramped away at last; 
 Sundowners steering for the coast, to ship before the mast. 
 
 But largely writ on Kimberley, the labour and the name. 
 Of one who dreamt a Titan dream upon his digger's claim. 
 
 Who took the gems from out the mine to light his own path- 
 way, 
 That pierced within the wilderness wherein he lies to-day. 
 
 Strong-willed to tide through early loss and bitter years that 
 
 spent 
 Their fury on the work he made along the path he went. 
 
 Who turned betimes from Titan schemes to fancies quaint and 
 
 old— 
 A vase, a chair, a rare carafe, or medal chased and scrolled. 
 
 Who laid his paths for all to tread mid lavender and rose, 
 In artless art, while grasses grow and gracious water flows. 
 
 ADVENTURE 
 
 Above the soundless tide that flowed 
 Blood-red athwart the wounded sun. 
 
 There floated from her far abode. 
 The Maiden Perilous; she is one 
 
 I had long read of in a book, 
 
 Who fetters all men by a look.
 
 Adventure 281 
 
 Her lips were full and taunting sweet, 
 
 Her eyes' large lustre pierced me through; 
 
 And wreathed about her hidden feet, 
 A fiower-like stole in circles blew; 
 
 She looked but once, and passed me by. 
 
 Uplifting swiftly in the sky. 
 
 Disdain was in her brilliant smile, 
 
 And scorn to wound her lovers true, 
 For well she knows the powerful wile 
 
 Of tardy favours, far and few; 
 And in my heart arose a cry: 
 " Lo ! I will seek thee till I die." 
 
 Warm hearts foreclosed an ancient bond, 
 And dared me then the price to pay; 
 
 " If ye should seek the world beyond, 
 Then hearken to the word we say — 
 
 So will ye bring us to the dust, 
 
 By this, your wild, world-faring lust." 
 
 I hearkened, praying: " Let me bide 
 
 Within the hearthlight till I die; " 
 And as I prayed, I saw the tide 
 
 Blood-red athwart the purple sky; 
 And mocking sweet the Maiden came 
 And thrilled me through with love and shame. 
 
 Am I the least of them that see 
 
 The challenge in her brilliant eyes 
 That I should tarry ? Woe is me, 
 
 Since I am young, and age is wise; 
 Albeit can ye chain the tide, 
 Or keep the winds from wandering wide? 
 
 For as the tide must follow when 
 
 The Lady Moon serenely wills. 
 And as the winds arise and fare 
 
 Beyond the colder seas and hills, 
 Lady! I must follow thee 
 Over the mountains and the sea. 
 
 John Runcie.
 
 282 The Call of the Veld 
 
 THE CALL OF THE VELD 
 
 What siren has taught you to call us 
 
 Where wind-swept lands sigh for the rains? 
 Who gave you the lures to enthral us, 
 
 drought-stricken plains? 
 Ah, but the clear Hght of dawning ! 
 
 Ah, but the freedom it spelt! 
 The limitless width of life's morning, 
 
 The call of the Veld ! 
 
 No land of your sons has bereft you, 
 
 No magic can make them forget, 
 For those who have loved you and left you 
 
 They dream of you yet. 
 They dream of the brown and red grasses. 
 
 The homestead where once they have dwelt; 
 They hear on the wind as it passes. 
 
 The call of the Veld ! 
 
 And we who have seen of Ufe's treasure. 
 
 And hunger of travel have known, 
 Have drunken our fill of its pleasure 
 
 Till weary we've grown; 
 And then with the sob that comes after 
 
 The mirth, as our throbbing hearts melt, 
 We hear above sound of our laughter. 
 
 The call of the Veld. 
 
 We yearn for the home when we're tired, 
 
 Horizons where veld and sky meet. 
 To shake off the dust that has mired 
 
 Our wandering feet. 
 All wonder of love in new semblance. 
 
 Strange gods at whose altars we knelt. 
 Are naught when we call to remembrance 
 
 The god of the Veld. 
 
 Whose pathway is o'er the blue mountains, 
 Whose breath is the keen-scented air. 
 
 Whose stonn-clouds have hollowed the fountains 
 And made the veld fair.
 
 The Spirit of Hidden Places 283 
 
 To haunt us in joy or in weeping, 
 Whichever our fate may have dealt, 
 
 To give us at last a long sleeping 
 Safe under the Veld ! 
 
 Mary Byron. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF HIDDEN PLACES 
 
 Over the mountain's shoulder, round the unweathered cape. 
 In lands beyond the sky-line, there hides a nameless shape, 
 Whether of friend or goddess, no mortal well may know; 
 But when she speaks — with flushing cheeks, they one by one 
 must go. 
 
 To men in far old cities, scanning the curious chart. 
 Her voice would sound at midnight like music in the heart; 
 Across the wrinkled parchment a glory seemed to fall, 
 And pageants pass like shapes in glass along the pictured 
 wall. 
 
 She led the sails of Lisbon beyond the Afric shore; 
 Winning a world of wonders by seas unknown before. 
 She watched the sturdy captains of Holland's India fleet 
 Planting their post on that grim coast where the two oceans 
 meet. 
 
 Yea, and in earlier ages, what ghostly race were they 
 Who left the eastward waters to tread the inland way? 
 Who bore the gold of Ophir and built the tower of stone — 
 But left no sign save empty mine, and rampart overthrown. 
 
 But others find their footsteps, and strike the trail anew. 
 How fared the burghers onward across the wild Karroo ! 
 And still, with hand at bridle and eyes that search the wind, 
 With strain and stress, the white men press that mocking 
 sprite to find. 
 
 We seek her by the valley — she moves upon the height; 
 The rainbow stands athwart us to blind her from our sight ; 
 Along the sea-bound bastion her steps are hid in spray. 
 And though we dream — with morning gleam the lustre dies 
 away.
 
 284 
 
 Afar in the Desert 
 
 Yet sometimes for a moment men think to feel her nigh: 
 When first the lost Moon Mountain unveils to Stanley's eye; 
 Or when the great white wanderer beheld Zambesi leap 
 With earthquake - stroke and sounding smoke down the 
 stupendous steep. 
 
 And then again we lose her, for lack of wizard skill, 
 
 Only the message liveth, that tells us, Further still I 
 
 Yet could we come upon her, and seize, and hold her fast. 
 
 The onward track would something lack of its old magic past. 
 
 No secret on the ridges, no whisper in the air, 
 No sense of paths untrodden, no shadow anywhere; 
 Earth robbed of half her glamour, and ocean void of awe — 
 The proud pursuit that brings not fruit is man's eternal law. 
 
 Lance Fallaw. 
 
 AFAR IN THE DESERT 
 
 {Abridged) 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 
 With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; 
 
 Away, away from the dwellings of men. 
 
 By the wild deers' haunt, by the buffaloes' glen; 
 
 By valleys remote where the oribi plays, 
 
 Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeeste graze; 
 
 And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 
 
 By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung with wild vine; 
 
 Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood. 
 
 And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood; 
 
 And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
 
 In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; 
 O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry 
 Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; 
 And the timorous quagga's shrill wheedling neigh 
 Is heard by the fountain by twilight grey; 
 Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, 
 \\\x\\ wild hoof siouiiiig the desolate plain;
 
 Afar in the Desert 285 
 
 And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
 Speeds Uke a horseman who travels in haste, 
 Hieing away to the home of her rest, 
 Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, 
 Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
 In the pathless depths of the wild Karroo. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
 
 With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; 
 
 Away, away, in the wilderness vast 
 
 Where the white man's foot hath never passed; 
 
 And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan 
 
 Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan; 
 
 A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 
 
 Which man hath abandoned from famine or fear; 
 
 Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone. 
 
 With the twihght bat from the yawning stone; 
 
 Where grass nor herb nor shrub takes root. 
 
 Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; 
 
 And the bitter-melon, for food and drink. 
 
 Is the pilgrim's fare, by the salt lake's brink; 
 
 A region of drought, where no river gHdes, 
 
 Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; 
 
 Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
 
 Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount. 
 
 Appears to refresh the aching eye; 
 
 But the barren earth and the burning sky. 
 
 And the blank horizon, round and round. 
 
 Spreads, void of living sight and sound. 
 
 Aiid here, while the night winds round me sigh, 
 
 And the stars bum bright in the midnight sky, 
 
 As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
 
 Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, 
 
 " A still small voice " comes through the wild 
 
 (Like a father consoling a fretful child). 
 
 Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear — 
 
 Saying, " Man is distant, but God is near! "
 
 286 Namaqualand 
 
 THE CORANNA i 
 
 Fast by his wild resounding river 
 The hstless Coran lingers ever; 
 Still drives his heifers forth to feed, 
 Soothed by the Gonah's humming reed; 
 A rover still unchecked will range, 
 As humour calls or seasons change; 
 His tents of mats and leathern gear 
 Are packed upon the patient steer. 
 Mid all his wanderings hating toil, 
 He never tills the stubborn soil; 
 But on the milky dams relies, 
 And what spontaneous earth supplies. 
 Should some long parching droughts prevail 
 And milk and bulbs and locusts fail. 
 He lays him down to sleep away 
 In languid trance the weary day; 
 Oft as he feels gaunt hunger's stound, 
 Still tightening famine's girdle round; 
 Lulled by the sound of the Gareep,^ 
 Beneath the willows murmuring deep; 
 Till thunder-clouds surcharged with rain 
 Pour o'er due o'er the panting plain. 
 And call the famished dreamer from his trance, 
 To feed on milk and game, and wake the moonlight dance. 
 
 Thomas Pringle. 
 
 NAMAQUALAND 
 
 A LAND of deathful sleep, where fitful dreams 
 
 Of hurrying spring scarce wake swift fading flowers; 
 
 A land of fieckless sky, and sheer-shed beams 
 
 Of sun and stars through day's and dark's slow hours; 
 
 A land where sand has choked once fluent streams — 
 Where grassless plains begirt by granite towers 
 
 1 An inland tribe, mentioned by Livingstone and other African 
 travellers. 
 
 * The Orange River.
 
 'Nkongane 287 
 
 That fright the swift and heaven-nurtured teams 
 
 Of winds that bear afar the sea-gleaned showers. 
 The wild Atlantic, fretted by the breath 
 
 Of fiery gales o'er leagues of desert sped, 
 Rolls back and wreaks in surf its thunderous wrath 
 
 On rocks that round the wan wide shore are spread ; 
 The waves for ever roar a song of death. 
 
 The shore they roar to is for ever dead. 
 
 'NKONGANE 
 
 Old — some eighty, or thereabouts; 
 
 Sly as a badger alert for honey ; 
 
 Honest perhaps — but I have my doubts — 
 
 With an eye that snaps at the clink of money : 
 
 Poor old barbarian, your Christian veneer 
 
 Is thin and cracked, and the core inside 
 
 Is heathen and natural. • Quaint and queer 
 
 Is your aspect, and yet, withal, dignified. 
 
 When your lips unlock to the taste of rum, 
 
 The tongue runs on with its cackle of clicks — 
 
 That like bubbles break as their consonants come. 
 
 For your speech is a brook full of frisky tricks. 
 
 You love to recall the days of old — 
 
 That are sweet to us all, for the alchemist Time 
 
 Strangely touchest the basest metals to gold, 
 
 And to-day's jangled peal wakes to-morrow's rich chime. 
 
 But not the past in a moony haze. 
 That shines for us sons of Europe, is yours — 
 You glow with the ardour of bloodstained days 
 And deeds long past — you were one of the doers — 
 Of spears washed red in the blood of foes. 
 Of villages wrapped in red flame, of fields 
 Where the vulture gorged, of the deadly close 
 Of the impi's horns, and the thundering shields. 
 
 Strange old man — like a lonely hawk 
 In a leafless forest that falls to the axe,
 
 288 The Bushman's Cave 
 
 You linger on; and you love to talk, 
 Yet your tongue full often a listener lacks. 
 Truth and fiction, like chaff and grain, 
 You mix together; and often I try 
 To sift the one from the other, and gain 
 The fact from its shell of garrulous lie. 
 
 You were young when Chaka, the scourge of man, 
 Swept over the land like the Angel of Death, 
 You marched in the rear, when the veteran van 
 Mowed down the armies — reapers of wrath ! 
 You sat on the ground in the crescent, and laid 
 Your shield down flat when Dingan spoke loud — 
 His vitals pierced by the murderer's blade — 
 To his warriors fierce, in dread anguish bowed. 
 
 And now to this : to cringe for a shilling. 
 
 To skulk round the mission-house, hungry and lone; 
 
 To carry food to the women tilling 
 
 The fields of maize ! For ever have flown 
 
 The days of the spear that the rust has eaten. 
 
 The days of the ploughshare suit you not; 
 
 Time hath no gift that your lot can sweeten, 
 
 A living death is your piteous lot. 
 
 THE BUSHMAN'S CAVE 
 
 I STAND behind the waterfall 
 
 That downward shoots, till spent in spray, 
 It clinging clasps the rocky wall 
 
 That beetles o'er the river way; 
 A secret cave is here fast tied 
 
 In swathing bands of forest dense, 
 A casket with a rocky lid. 
 
 Within the stream's circumference. 
 
 'Tis here the vanished bushman dwelt — 
 He, with his brood, long years ago —
 
 The Bushman's Cave 289 
 
 Beneath this ledge; and deftly spelt, 
 
 In pictures that still freshly glow, 
 The wild-wood creatures, not more wild 
 
 Than he, who, hiding thus apart, 
 His idle days and hours beguiled 
 
 At his strange, harmless limning art. 
 
 Here human creatures hoped and loved, 
 
 And feared and hated in their turn — 
 Rejoiced when fortune kindly proved, 
 
 And over life's despites did mourn; 
 Here women nursed their babes, here maids 
 
 Oft listened to their lovers rude; 
 Here death has thrown a deeper shade 
 
 Of darkness o'er the gloomy wood. 
 
 There in the cleft is still the mark 
 
 Of bygone fires whose flames are dead 
 As those who lit them — life's strange spark 
 
 And glowing ember, each has sped. 
 And by the south wind's gentle sigh 
 
 The flickering sunlit leaves are turned 
 And from the cliffs the brown hawks cry 
 
 To-day as when each brightly burned. 
 
 Through fancy's glass I see around 
 
 The shades of long dead forms arisen; 
 They move and breathe without a sound, 
 
 And live in their brief poet-season; 
 There he their bows, their arrows keen, 
 
 Whilst on the fire an earthen pot 
 Holds, simmering slowly, foul and green 
 
 The arrow-poison's foetid clot. 
 
 There lies an antelope, fresh killed. 
 
 By hungry stomachs close surrounded, 
 And there's a wicker-basket filled 
 
 With luscious locusts, freshly pounded; 
 And look the glowing coals upon 
 
 A scaly snake is slowly toasting. 
 Whilst on that ledge, there in the sun. 
 
 The hunters of their deeds are boasting.
 
 290 
 
 Two Graves 
 
 'Tis gone; 'twas but a glimpse, a flash, 
 
 That for an instant lit the past; 
 I see now but the water dash 
 
 In quivering spray-sheets downward cast, 
 And on the rocks, in deathless hue, 
 
 The records of a perished race. 
 That from this land of ours withdrew 
 
 In silence, leaving scarce a trace. 
 
 Poor waifs upon creation's skirts, 
 
 Your melancholy history. 
 To men of earnest mind, asserts 
 
 A problem and a mystery: 
 Whence came ye? Wherefore did ye live 
 
 To wither from the sphere of being ? 
 And why did nature to you give 
 
 No ears to hear, no eyes for seeing — 
 
 The music and the light, whereby 
 
 All men must walk, to guide your steps 
 Along hfe's path beneath the sky. 
 
 Between the snaring pitfalls' depths ? 
 Ye sank from something higher far. 
 
 And, distanced in Ufe's struggling race, 
 Your last and failing remnants are 
 
 Erased from ofi the great world's face. 
 
 TWO GRAVES 
 
 {Dr. Livingstone's and His Wife's) 
 
 I 
 
 The one Ues low beneath a tropic sun, 
 
 Where huge Zambesi — spent and tired of rage. 
 
 And silent after roarings, and the leap 
 
 From heights, the wonder of the world — slow glides, 
 
 And presses ocean backwards in his strength. 
 
 It holds the dust of what was once a woman, 
 
 A woman, who from distant Scotland came 
 
 To help her hero-husband to maintain —
 
 Two Graves 291 
 
 As errant knight of God, in foremost rank — 
 
 The peaceful war of love, and truth, and light. 
 
 Against the hordes of darkness, hate, and death 
 
 She came; and three short months had scarcely gone 
 
 When fiery fever held her in his grip; 
 
 Then death came, and from ruined body drew 
 
 The faithful soul, and rendered it to God. 
 
 No woman's hand was there to flicker cool, 
 
 And drop its balmful touches on her brow; 
 
 No thought of piteous comfort might she take, 
 
 That in some holy spot amongst the tombs 
 
 That held her kindred's ashes, hers would be 
 
 A shrine for love's devotion to adorn. 
 
 Alas ! She knew that he whose hot tears fell 
 
 Upon her dying face, ay, even he. 
 
 Her husband, might not Hnger by her grave. 
 
 But, by the trumpet tones of duty called. 
 
 Must hasten onward, even to his death. 
 
 II 
 
 Within the lofty fane where sacred dust 
 
 Of heroes, saints, and singers Ue in state. 
 
 His bones are laid. He died upon his knees. 
 
 Alone, and far from s^Tnpathy of man, 
 
 His head upon his buckler Bible laid; 
 
 Weary and spent, he answered to the call 
 
 When God said to His servant, " Come and rest." 
 
 And faithful hands then bore his body far 
 
 O'er swamps and desert-sands unto the sea; 
 
 And heaven's winds swift wafted it across 
 
 The sea-fields to the far sea-girded isle 
 
 Whose son he was; and Britain, with one voice 
 
 Of reverent mourning, voted him her first 
 
 And highest honour, and with sad acclaim 
 
 Bestowed a seat in the high Pantheon 
 
 Of famed Westminster, 
 
 III 
 
 Though their dust apart 
 Is separated by the Lybian waste. 
 That stretches from the Mountains of the Moon
 
 292 Song of the Seasons 
 
 To where old Atlas stands and tells the sky 
 The secrets of the desert and the lore 
 Of his wild daughter Ocean; tho' the curve 
 Of the world's strong shoulders swells between; 
 Yet sure they are together. 
 
 SONG OF THE SEASONS 
 
 What says the antelope, 
 Crouched in the fern? 
 Winter is cold, 
 
 When will spring-time return? 
 Moist wind from the sea, set the fountains aflowing. 
 Hie hitherward, spring, set the wild flowers blowing. 
 
 What says the snake. 
 
 As he creeps from the shadow? 
 Summer bides far, 
 
 Spring is chill in the meadow. 
 Sun climb aloft, slanted beams quicken slowly; 
 Sheer-shed, they warm both the high and the lowly. 
 
 What says the lory. 
 
 Hoarse from the spray? 
 Autumn brings fruit 
 After summer alway. 
 Droop flowers vain, for your mission is ended. 
 To bear the seed-babes was your beauty intended. 
 
 What says the world? 
 
 Winter's my rest; 
 After a revel — 
 Slumber is best. 
 Sigh, sad south wind, o'er the wild ocean faring. 
 From ice-fields afar your white frost burthen bearing. 
 
 W. C. Scully.
 
 The Pioneer 293 
 
 THE PIONEER 
 
 A LITTLE mound on the mountain, a little cross in the clay, 
 And wheel-spoor filling with water where the waggons tum'd 
 
 away; 
 A trampled break in the long grass where the cattle were 
 
 inspann'd, 
 And the Pioneer has wander'd to look for his newer land. 
 
 The clouds still hung on the skyline, the grass still bent with 
 
 the rain, 
 When the crows came back to the outspan to peck for wasted 
 
 grain, 
 And a jackal tripp'd to the clearing to nuzzle, and tremble, 
 
 and peer, 
 And to scratch, 'tween whiles of waiting, the tomb of the 
 
 Pioneer. 
 
 Only a jackal anigh him in the bed where he is laid. 
 
 And six lone feet of the highveld by the road that he had 
 
 made 
 For the feet of the coming peoples, far back and so long ago — 
 Yet they cursed his road for an ape-track . . . Ah, brother, 
 
 they did not know ! 
 
 He was the bravest among them, he was the pick of the crowd, 
 Dauntless, and frugal, and cunning; tireless, blooded, and 
 
 proud. 
 But he gave his pride to his people, and he spill'd his blood 
 
 for the land. 
 And he alter'd, and alter' d, and alter'd — and they could not 
 
 understand. ... 
 
 He was the first man to venture, he was the first man to find ! 
 Trusting his life to his rifle, groping ahead in the blind ! 
 Seeking new lands for his people ! — This is the end of the day, 
 A Httle mound on the mountain, a little cross in the clay; 
 
 A hungry jackal above him, a sombre flock of crows, 
 A trampled break on the highveld where the sour hill-grass 
 grows,
 
 294 The Hunting of Shumba 
 
 And six lone feet in the bleakness where the weeping hill- 
 winds sough, 
 
 For his work is done and accomplish'd, and — he is not 
 wanted now. 
 
 This is the end of his labour, this is the end of his play: — 
 Fresh wheel-spoor, filling with water, where the waggons 
 
 turned away; 
 Cold sleep on the sodden upland that he was the first to find. 
 And never a voice to mourn him, but the voice of the wet 
 
 hill- wind. 
 
 A little brown in the greenness, an empty tin by the trail, 
 Smoke-wreaths sinking to leeward as the dying fires fail ; 
 Pattering paws above him, and hungry eyes that peer. 
 Is the end of a gallant venture ; the pay of the Pioneer. 
 
 THE HUNTING OF SHUMBA 
 " Now Cometh the old lion from the pool." — Stephen Phillips. 
 
 The hairs about his muzzle tipp'd with wet; 
 
 The last sun glinting on his tawny mane, 
 And burnishing his hide; veil'd eyes that yet 
 
 So slumbrous-solemn flash and slowly wane. 
 
 Veil'd slumbrous-solemn eyes, that half-asleep 
 Seem utter-careless of the wild around ; 
 
 Soft seeming-careless steps that seek the deep 
 Gloom'd bush — but give no shadow of a sound. 
 
 Loose-limb'd, he slouches shambling in the cool; 
 
 Head down, hide rippling over lazy might; 
 Thoughtful and terrible he leaves the pool — 
 
 Shumba the Lion, passing to the night.
 
 Umfeti, the Witch Doctor 295 
 
 n 
 A grass-blade breaking! 
 Swift, in awful calm, 
 
 The mighty limbs at length along the ground; 
 Steel muscles tightening — 
 A sense of harm, 
 Intangible ... no shadow of a sound. . . . 
 
 But savage eyes unveil'd, 
 
 Intense as death; 
 
 Purs'd lips and lower'd ears and bated breath. 
 
 Dread vigour hail'd 
 
 From every nerve and tissue — crouching there 
 
 Blent with grass — incarnate, awful fear ! 
 
 A leap — a scream — a thud ; 
 
 And it is done. 
 
 Silence awhile, and the hot smell of blood. 
 
 Silence, then slowly, with the sinking sun, 
 
 The rend of flesh, . . . The crickets wake and sing. 
 
 The frogs take up their song, the night-jars wing 
 
 Weird in the azure dusk. As had been will'd. 
 
 Chance brought him food; and Fate has been fulfilled. 
 
 UMFETI, THE WITCH DOCTOR 
 
 Here, where the gnona ^ bask 
 
 But fifty yards away, 
 Under a wither'd palm 
 
 Where children never play — 
 Sacred to him alone. 
 
 This strip of baking land — 
 'Feti the Witch Doctor, 
 
 Sits on the sand. 
 
 Here where the lizards climb 
 Over his shrunken limbs. 
 
 Kindly the great sun shines, 
 Kindly the great sun dims 
 
 ^ Gnona, crocodiles.
 
 296 Umfeti, the Witch Doctor 
 
 Thoughts of the sombre past, 
 Thoughts of the horrors done; 
 
 Teti, the Witch Doctor, 
 Nods in the sun. 
 
 High in the depthless blue 
 
 The circhng vultures wheel, 
 Over the burning sand 
 
 Their silent shadows steal — 
 Over the aged man 
 
 Silent a shadow flits: 
 *Feti, the Witch Doctor, 
 
 Sleeps where he sits. 
 
 Utter the silence reigns. 
 
 The lazy lizards sleep, 
 Even the fishes doze 
 
 Down in the river's deep. — 
 Back to the wither'd palm. 
 
 Chin on his sunken chest: 
 'Feti, the Witch Doctor, 
 
 Dreams in his rest. 
 
 The magic bones have slipp'd 
 
 Out of the shrivell'd hand 
 Down to the magic bag 
 
 Propp'd in the shimmering sand; 
 But all his rest has gone, 
 
 And all forgetting fled: 
 'Feti, the Witch Doctor, 
 
 Speaks with the dead. 
 
 Out of the writhing void, 
 
 Out of the creeping dark. 
 There comes the form of her . . . 
 
 That is he speaking — hark ! 
 (Blacker the darkness grows, 
 
 Thicker the shadows lie) 
 " Umfeti, Witch Doctor, 
 
 Jiwa must die."
 
 Umfeti, the Witch Doctor 297 
 
 Jiwa! His secret love, 
 
 Child of the mighty King ! 
 Never! Imambo! . . . but 
 
 Grimly the echoes ring^ 
 Echo on echo wails 
 
 Mockingly monotone, 
 Mocking the Witch Doctor: 
 
 " King, it is done." 
 
 Down to the river's brink 
 
 Go girls to fetch water, 
 Stop they at sight of him, 
 
 The father of slaughter, 
 Stop with averted eyes, 
 
 Tremble and curtsey deep: 
 Tremble at sight of him 
 
 Sitting asleep. 
 
 He is the touch of death, 
 
 He is the fear'd of all, 
 Chiefs shake at sight of him, 
 
 And the warriors tall 
 Shuffle uneasily — 
 
 Fearing the eyes that pierce, 
 Fearing the Witch Doctor, 
 
 'Feti the fierce. 
 
 Not so in days gone by: 
 
 He was the healer then, 
 A friend to the ailing, 
 
 Belov'd of the children, 
 Father of fatherless. 
 
 And the hater of blood — 
 'Feti, the kind doctor, 
 
 'Feti, the good. 
 
 Sudden the silence breaks, 
 The waken'd lizards fly, 
 
 For, gasping with terror, 
 He awakes with a cry.
 
 298 The Bastard 
 
 Ha ! Have the spirits gone 
 Back to the sombre past 
 
 Leaving him living yet — 
 Yet to this last? 
 
 Over the burning sand, 
 
 Into the flaming white, 
 Shaking with hoary age, 
 
 Blinking before the light: 
 Mutt'ring with trembling lips, 
 
 And a blot on the day: 
 'Feti, the Witch Doctor, 
 
 Shuffles way. 
 
 THE BASTARD 
 
 Neither the one nor the other, neither the White nor the 
 
 Black, 
 By the side of the dusty waggon outspanned on the highveld 
 
 track. 
 Alone by the dung-fed fire where the sad-voiced night-jars 
 
 wheel 
 Goliat Witbooi, the half-caste, partakes of his evening meal. 
 
 Not clear is the path of the black man, nor easy the road of 
 
 the white. 
 But the trail of a man who is neither is wanting all glimmer 
 
 of light, 
 The man who is both, but is neither; the sport of a sudden 
 
 fire 
 Of a woman who saw not the meaning and a man who was 
 
 duU'd by desire. 
 
 At odds with God in his heaven, at sixes and sevens with 
 
 man. 
 The colour showing beneath the white, the white beneath 
 
 the tan.
 
 The Bastard 299 
 
 Despised and distrusted by White and by Black; wifeless, 
 
 childless, and lone — 
 Father, how could you have done it? mother, you might 
 
 have known. . . . 
 
 Not blind to the aching pity, but dumb for the hot excuse, 
 He would hide the shame of his being in a passion of wild 
 
 abuse 
 From those whose stare is an insult, from those who will slam 
 
 the door 
 On the shame that is his and yet is not, for the wrong of the 
 
 Two Before. 
 
 Embitter'd, unlettered, unloving; homeless, nameless, for- 
 lorn; 
 
 Doomed by a fact that he cannot mend — by the fact that he 
 was bom — 
 
 Drinking his beaker of coffee, and eating his dole of bread, 
 
 Well might he pray for the end to be near and wish that he 
 were dead. 
 
 But no. For hope is still present, and hope is a father to all. 
 And the long road stretches to northward — and he hears the 
 
 long road call — 
 And the veld is a kindly mother, the bullocks doze at the 
 
 chain, 
 Umfaan will return by morning, and he will trek on again. 
 
 Yea, good is the road to the northward, and good is the light 
 
 of the sun. 
 And good is a pipe in the evening when the long day's trek is 
 
 done — 
 When the bullocks browse in the valley and the moon comes 
 
 over the kop. 
 And the voorlooper makes the cookies, and Witbooi drinks 
 
 his dop; 
 
 And the fire lights up the waggon, and the smoke goes by with 
 the breeze, 
 
 And he dreams of the good north hunting — old camps be- 
 neath the trees
 
 300 Song of the Afrikander Woman 
 
 In the timber'd low-veld country where the game is as thick 
 
 as stock, 
 With never a White man to scorn him and never a Black man 
 
 to mock. 
 
 Yea, good is the road to the northward through the sun- 
 warmed winter days 
 
 When the fine dust blows to leeward and the track leads 
 round the vleis, 
 
 To sit on the fore-part locker and to drone to the warm spent 
 wind 
 
 The chant of the New before one, and the dirge of the Old, 
 behind. 
 
 Song of the home that is moving past kopje and valley and 
 
 plain — 
 Song of the very simple things: the sun and the wind and 
 
 the rain 
 And the warm brown earth beneath one and the sky where 
 
 the vultures soar — 
 With only the bad behind one and only the good before. 
 
 Neither the one nor the other, neither the White nor the Black, 
 By the side of the dusty waggon outspann'd on the highveld track. 
 Wrapped in a coloured blanket, and dreaming of his desire 
 Lies Goliat Witbooi, the half-caste, asleep before the fire. 
 
 SONG OF THE AFRIKANDER WOMAN 
 
 Why do you stand there at the gate, 
 
 Out there where the roadway goes? 
 
 Is it me you watch under the rim of your hat, 
 
 Me or the rose? 
 
 There you stand by your cart, 
 
 And you look at the rose, not me, 
 
 For I am very old. 
 
 But the bloom of the rose is the light of my eyes, 
 
 And the root of the rose my heart.
 
 Song of the Afrikander Woman 301 
 
 Here died he by the threshold 
 
 (Piet, Pietj how young were we !) 
 
 But they drank his blood with their assegais 
 
 And left the home so cold — 
 
 And desolate unto me. . . . 
 
 The homestead and the land 
 Left desolate unto me, 
 But his blood broke out in the sand 
 In this rose that never dies; 
 This rose in the burning sand. 
 
 The dew on the leaves of the rose? 
 They are tears that never dry; 
 The thorns on the stem of the rose ? 
 They are hate that waits that hand — 
 The hand that slew my man, — 
 God shall not pass it by ! 
 Nothing shall hinder, nothing let ! 
 God knows the road by which he goes. 
 And God shall not forget ! 
 
 'O^ 
 
 God shall remember yet 
 
 The tears that never dry, 
 
 And the hundred men to one 
 
 That knew the way to die. . . . 
 
 I talk and I talk out here in the sun, 
 
 Where the dusty roadway goes. 
 
 With the stranger there with his cart, 
 
 Who stops to see the rose — 
 
 I, who have seen the assegais . . . 
 
 While the red rose burns with the light of my eyes, 
 
 And the rose roots grope in my heart. 
 
 Why do you stand there at the gate. 
 
 Out there where the roadway goes ? 
 
 Is it me you watch under the rim of your hat? 
 
 Not so, but the rose.
 
 302 Fear 
 
 FEAR 
 
 Deep-bosomed nighty and all-pervading dark, 
 Long distances immeasurably lone, 
 Still waters glancing starlight, and the stone 
 White face of mountains blindly to the blue 
 Up-yearning grimly ... as the valleys hark. 
 Fear-centred, mighty-shadow' d, drear and deep 
 Between the timber'd ranges, where they keep 
 The comers of the grass-fiats, wet with dew. 
 
 II 
 
 No sleep for you, dark ranges, nor for me; 
 
 No rest, valleys, for your teeming heart; 
 
 From out tumultuous dreamings do we start 
 
 Fear-gasping to the coldness of the night; 
 
 (We are as one) — waiting for what Will Be . . . 
 
 We are as one in terror; while the bright 
 
 White stars stare mocking, though they cannot light 
 
 The vast unknowledge of Eternity. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Wet waiting plains that are but half-awake 
 (Asleep with weariness, awake with fear). 
 The weight of thousands on your breast you bear. 
 Fear-haunted, silent thousands, dumb and shy, 
 Soft-footed, stealing under bush and brake, 
 Wide-nostrill'd, nervous, staring in the gloom 
 Where food and life await them, or where loom 
 The yellow muzzles by the which they die; 
 
 IV 
 
 (The crouching muscle blended with the shades, 
 
 Intangible and terrible, alive. 
 
 And irresistible . . .). Brown plains, you strive 
 
 To keep your horror hidden, as I do; 
 
 Your night-dews wash the blood drops from the blades 
 
 Of broken grass imperfectly; the stains 
 
 Are there; the fear, though hidden, yet remains. 
 
 Yea, though we laugh, we are the same, we two.
 
 Fear 303 
 
 Through outer emptiness the planets roll 
 Weaving a threadless pattern in the skies — 
 That cloth of measureless infinities, 
 Whose utter hugeness baffles all desire 
 To probe beyond sight's limit, though the soul 
 Should soar beyond the systems to a shore 
 Where neither fear nor sorrow evermore 
 Shall rob the spirit of its glorious fire. 
 
 VI 
 
 Beyond all comprehension swing the suns, 
 (Mere needle-points by distance) — but the tale 
 Renews its dull monotony: we wail 
 " Ah God, ah God, show us what Will Befall! 
 The darkness and the mystery that stuns, 
 Cold-handed, holds us terror-bound; we writhe 
 At moments, horror-conquer'd — rise and strive, 
 Sob-choked, to curse the riddle of it all ! " 
 
 VII 
 
 Happy is he who fears but Death alone; 
 
 His path is plain with power, for he goes 
 
 Guarded and carefully by ways he knows. 
 
 With certain footsteps — easy to be brave ! 
 
 But there are others who may not atone — 
 
 Nor find fulfilment, peace, nor any hope. 
 
 But only further terror, by the slope 
 
 That drags dumb tongues beyond the restless grave. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Cold whispering night; and shrouding velvet dark; 
 
 Great distances unmeasured and alone; 
 
 Deep waters, splash'd with starlight; and the stone 
 
 Grey face of krantzes staring at the blue 
 
 In half derision . . . while the valleys hark 
 
 Awe-silenced, soaked in shadows, where they keep 
 
 Ill-hid the ranges' horror; whiles they weep 
 
 Dank hill-streams to the grass'd plains, wet with dew.
 
 304 The Veldt 
 
 IX 
 
 Th' umsasas trace a network on the sky, 
 The cold stars glitter in the icy air 
 From out unclouded deepness; and the drear 
 Hyena howls his load of savage shame 
 To th' uncaring wilderness; — while I, 
 Sitting upon my blankets by the fire, 
 Rake, like the ashes of my lost desire. 
 The dying embers of the perish'd flame, 
 
 KiNGSLEY FaIRBRIDGE. 
 
 THE VELDT 
 
 Cast the window wider, sonny, 
 
 Let me see the veldt. 
 Rolling grandly to the sunset, 
 
 Where the mountains melt. 
 With the sharp horizon round it, 
 
 Like a silver belt. 
 
 Years and years I've trekked across it, 
 
 Ridden back and fore. 
 Till the silence and the glamour 
 
 Ruled me to the core; 
 No man ever knew it better, 
 
 None could love it more. 
 
 There's a balm for crippled spirits 
 
 In the open view, 
 Running from your very footsteps 
 
 Out into the blue; 
 Like a waggon-track to heaven. 
 
 Straight 'twixt God and you. 
 
 There's a magic, soul-compelling. 
 
 In the boundless space. 
 And it grows upon you, sonny. 
 
 Like a woman's face — 
 Passionate and pale and tender, 
 
 With a marble grace.
 
 The Veldt 305 
 
 There's the sum of all religion 
 
 In its mightiness; 
 Winged truths, beyond your doubting. 
 
 Close about you press. 
 God is greater in the open — 
 
 Little man is less. 
 
 There's a voice pervades its stillness. 
 
 Wonderful and clear; 
 Tongues of prophets and of angels, 
 
 Whispering far and near, 
 Speak an everlasting gospel 
 
 To the spirit's ear. 
 
 There's a sense you gather, sonny, 
 
 In the open air ; 
 Shift your burden ere it breaks you: 
 
 God will take His share. 
 Keep your end up for your own sake; 
 
 All the rest's His care. 
 
 There's a promise, if you need it. 
 
 In the time to come; 
 All the veldt is loud and vocal 
 
 Where the Bible's dumb. 
 Heaven is paved with gold for parsons, 
 
 But it's grassed for some. 
 
 There's a spot I know of, sonny. 
 
 Yonder by the stream ; 
 Bushes handy for the fire, 
 
 Water for the team. 
 By the old home outspan, sonny, 
 
 Let me lie and dream. 
 
 Perceval Gibbon.
 
 3o6 The Cemetery of the Veld 
 
 THE CEMETERY OF THE VELD ^ 
 
 THE'"slender shaft, memorial of their grief, 
 Time's swift forgetfulness defies and braves, 
 
 Pointing to Heaven from the lonely hill 
 Above the crowding graves. 
 
 • • • • * 
 
 Here, while the man fought out the bitter fight. 
 The woman in rebellious wrath immured. 
 
 Bore for his sake the immemorial pain, 
 The primal curse endured. 
 
 , • • • • 
 
 Here she saw die children she could not save, 
 
 Clutched hard-won infants to her throbbing breast, 
 
 Sternly relentless, ignorant, and brave — 
 Leave to her God the rest. 
 
 , • • • " 
 
 And here that God who judges desperate hearts. 
 And pardons all because He understands. 
 
 Weighed up the anguish in unfaltering scales, 
 And stretched forth pitying hands. 
 
 , . . . • 
 
 " Be steadfast," there the firm words glow and shine. 
 Beyond man's little round of cruel strife 
 
 So much remains those bitter hours have won 
 That passes not with life. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Love, the divine inheritance of man, 
 
 The dauntless angel with the brooding wings, 
 
 Who, undismayed, disputes the narrow way, 
 With Azrael, King of Kings. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Love, who points onward — even with a sword, 
 Destroying evil where his feet have trod. 
 
 Has done his work and left his high reward, 
 Ambassador of God. 
 
 Beatrice Allhusen. 
 
 » Written in reference to an article in The Cape on the " Concentration 
 Camp."
 
 Picket 307 
 
 THE KAPJI BLUE 
 
 Beside the glancing, dancing Vaal 
 A maiden walks divinely tall; 
 Her tresses hid in Kapji blue, 
 She waits, she waits, her lover true. 
 
 Oh, lover true, oh, lover true. 
 
 Concealed within the Kapji blue. 
 
 Red lips await thy lover's kiss: 
 
 Come, come, and claim love's hour of bliss! 
 
 Beside the grey and sullen Vaal 
 
 A maiden walks ; ah ! sad tears fall. 
 
 She whispers from the Kapji blue: 
 
 " Thy duty calls, I will be true! " 
 Oh, lover true, oh, lover true, 
 Tears fall beneath the Kapji blue; 
 One lingering kiss from white lips take. 
 And then farewell, for duty's sake. 
 
 Beside the rushing, swollen Vaal 
 
 A heart is broken. " That is all." 
 
 A maiden walks, low-bowed her head; 
 
 On field of blood her love lies " dead." 
 Oh, lover true, oh, lover true. 
 No more she wears the Kapji blue! 
 Oh, lover true, oh, lover brave. 
 The veld wind moans across thy grave. 
 
 H. WooDHOusE Neale. 
 
 PICKET 
 
 Straining me eyes in the darkness, 
 
 Gazing away into ink. 
 Busting me ears for the things that I hears. 
 
 And thinking the things that I think. 
 Looking at nothing come closer. 
 
 Watching that nothing draw near. 
 Seeing them plain through the mist and the rain, 
 
 Then finding there's nothing to fear.
 
 308 My Love Karin 
 
 Picket, oh, beautiful picket, 
 
 Oh, skylines at night in the cold, 
 Oh, sweet little hills with yer mist and yer chills, 
 
 And your deaths that never have been told. 
 Picket, oh, beautiful picket. 
 
 Oh, bridles that clink in the dark. 
 Oh, me and oh, you, an' the fears that we knew, 
 
 Jest me and jest you in the dark. 
 
 Picket, poor devil on picket. 
 
 With yer bayonet atop of yer gun; 
 How naked you seemed, when you watched and you dreamed. 
 
 And thought of things that you done. 
 Jest counted them all on the kopje. 
 
 And thought of them, oh, and the shame; 
 Jest counted them all from the first to the fall, 
 
 Calling her name. 
 
 Straining me eyes in the darkness. 
 
 Seeing her face in the ink, 
 Busting me ears for the things that I fears, 
 
 And thinking the thing that I think. 
 Waiting for love in the clover. 
 
 And watching for death in the dark. 
 Oh, poor little sod, with m' love and m' God, 
 
 Jest praying alone in the dark. 
 
 " MOME." 
 
 MY LOVE KARIN 
 
 My love Karin's little hand. 
 By God's loving wonder plann'd 
 Holds about my finger light, 
 As it were a jewel bright. 
 
 My love Karin's sunny eyes. 
 How they open in surprise 
 When her little red balloon 
 Soars above her like a moon 1
 
 Katrina 309 
 
 My love Karin's lovely face — 
 God's own smile is in that place — 
 Beams ecstatic when she sees 
 Branches bowing in the breeze. 
 
 My love Karin's coral lips 
 Can reveal two ivory tips — 
 God, what beauty cans't thou make 
 When Thou love and life dost wake ! 
 
 My love Karin's silver voice 
 Makes her mother's mind rejoice — 
 God, what music there can be 
 In her ringing laugh of glee ! 
 
 My love Karin, nine months old — 
 Half the wonder is untold! 
 God made man, hut did He know 
 All the joy He did bestow? 
 
 Hugh J. Evans. 
 
 KATRINA 
 
 From beneath her cotton " Kappie " 
 Bright grey eyes demurely shining; 
 
 Even-tempered, plump, and happy, 
 Never groaning or repining — 
 Ach, Katrina ! 
 
 Just one flaxen curl escaping 
 From the primly fastened setting: 
 
 One of nature's make and shaping 
 Yet a curl there's no forgetting — 
 Ach, Katrina ! 
 
 And such merry joyous laughter. 
 Rippling on with lilts and catches, 
 
 Charming once, and ever after; 
 And a voice that — well it matches ! 
 Ach, Katrina!
 
 310 " Lala, 'Sana Lwam ! " 
 
 When T offer her a posy 
 
 She regards me, half beguiling, 
 
 With a cheek becoming rosy — 
 Looks provoking, coyly smiling. 
 Ach, Katrina! 
 
 " Dat is mooi; ja dat is prachtig! 
 
 Foei ! your heart is torn with sorrow. 
 Sis toch ! malkop ! (allemachtig !) 
 Dag, Mynheer — until to-morrow." 
 Ach, Katrina. 
 
 " Sneyd." 
 
 "LALA, 'SANA LWAMl"i 
 {Kaffir Lullaby Song) 
 The hoeing of day is done, 
 The weary heat of the sun, 
 The wood is gathered, the water drawn, 
 And now we can rest till the coming of dawn ; 
 Till the coming of dawn, my babe, 
 Lala, lala, 'mtwana wam; 
 Lala, 'sana lwam ! 
 
 soothing season of night! 
 
 Bringing a respite sweet 
 
 To aching hands and weary feet, 
 
 From the burden of toil 
 
 And the sting of the heat: 
 
 soothing season of night ! 
 
 Lala, lala, 'mtwana wam ; 
 
 Lala, 'sana lwam ! 
 
 Calm and fair is the night. 
 The moon shines over the hill, 
 Flooding with magical light 
 Forest and field and rill. 
 All is peaceful and still, 
 Save the hungry jackal's howl. 
 Calm and fair is the night. 
 The moon shines over the hill. 
 
 Lala, lala, 'mtwana wam; 
 
 Lala, 'sana lwam, 
 • Sleep, sleep, my child, sleep, my babe.
 
 In the Matoppos 31 1 
 
 IN THE MATOPPOS 
 
 In lone Matoppos now he lies, 
 
 Can we forget? 
 Our leader, seer; his hills, his skies. 
 
 Are near him yet ! 
 
 Like to the Hebrew seer of old, 
 
 Who, within sight 
 Of promised Canaan, passed away 
 
 On Nebo's height — 
 
 So he: he only saw the dawn 
 
 Of promised day 
 Break o'er the hills of his lov'd land: 
 
 He might not stay 
 
 To see the splendour of that noon, 
 
 For which he wrought 
 Thro' the long, weary, waiting years 
 
 With anxious thought. 
 
 Strange to our purblind eyes the tools 
 
 Which, with due care. 
 The great inventor takes to build 
 
 His kingdom here. 
 
 He sought to further the strong sway 
 
 Of Britain's isle. 
 But all unconsciously for God 
 
 He wrought the while. 
 
 In lone Matoppos now he lies, 
 
 Our leader, seer; 
 His hills, his woods, his streams, his skies 
 
 Are ever near ! 
 
 F. C. Slater.
 
 312 The Digger's Song 
 
 THE DIGGER'S SONG 
 
 Oh, mates, the veldt is brown and bare, 
 And drought is on the land; 
 But beneath lie the glittering veins of gold. 
 Like the cords in this broad brown hand. 
 
 Then dig for the glittering gold ! 
 
 Dig for the wealth untold ! 
 
 Dig with a fire that can never tire, 
 
 Down, down to the glittering gold. 
 
 Oh, mates, we left some living friends 
 
 Away across the sea; 
 
 But my sweetheart here, in the brown earth's breast, 
 
 Is dearer far to me. 
 
 Then hurrah for the glittering gold ! 
 
 Hurrah for the wealth untold ! 
 
 We'll win it, we'll spend it, we'll drink it, we'll lend it, 
 
 We'll live for the glittering gold ! 
 
 My sweetheart's hair is yellow, bright 
 As the sun in yonder sky; 
 But shy my sweetheart is, and dark 
 The place where she does lie. 
 
 Then drink to the glittering gold ! 
 
 Drink to the wealth untold ! 
 
 Drink deep and long, with laughter and song. 
 
 Drink, drink to the glittering gold ! 
 
 My sweetheart's bright as the rising sun, 
 And cold as the waning moon; 
 And hard as the stones in the watercourse 
 'Neath the dust and glare of noon. 
 
 Then a health to the glittering gold ! 
 
 A health to the wealth untold ! 
 
 A health, my lads, to the fairest of maids, 
 
 A health to the glittering gold 1 
 
 Amy Sutherland.
 
 Shadow 313 
 
 SHADOW 
 
 The shadowy mist rolls sadly 
 
 Down o'er the mountain's breast; 
 The shivering foam springs madly, 
 
 Torn from the billow's crest: 
 Low on my eyes is creeping 
 
 The gathering cloud of tears; 
 High at my feet is leaping 
 
 The breaking tide of years. 
 
 The spray and the vapour mingle; 
 
 I hear the sea-bird's cry, 
 Hoarse in the grating shingle, 
 
 Shrill in the wild wind's sigh: 
 My fugitive spirit flutters, 
 
 Borne on the wa>nvard breeze. 
 And deep is the moan it utters 
 
 As the murmur of the seas. 
 
 The light of heaven is failing, 
 
 The smile of earth has gone; 
 To laughter follows wailing. 
 
 And the sable veil is drawn : 
 The joys of time are shrouded 
 
 And buried one by one; 
 The sun of life is clouded 
 
 Ere yet the race is run. 
 
 I list to the sough and sobbing, 
 
 I think of the vanished scene; 
 I feel my pulses throbbing 
 
 With pleasures that have been: 
 For love then fans the embers 
 
 And ashes of regret, 
 And still with pain remembers 
 
 What sorrow would forget. 
 
 The wreathing mist now covers 
 The winding mountain's side;
 
 314 The Pace of the Ox 
 
 The scattered spume now hovers 
 
 High o'er the flowing tide: 
 I am whelmed in the rain and plashing, 
 
 Blinded with chilling tears, 
 'Mid floods of memory dashing. 
 And the broken surf of years. 
 
 Henry Martyn Foot, 
 January 1874. 
 
 THE PACE OF THE OX 
 
 What do we know — and what do we care — for Time and his 
 
 silver scythe. 
 Since there is always time to spare, so long as a man's alive? — 
 The world may come, and the world may go, and the world 
 
 may whistle by. 
 But the pace of the ox is steady and slow, and life is a lullaby. 
 
 What do we know of the city's scorn, the hum of a world 
 amaze, 
 
 Hot-foot haste, and the fevered dawn, and forgotten yester- 
 days ? — 
 
 For men may strain, and women may strive, in busier lands 
 to-day, 
 
 But the pace of the ox is the pace to thrive in the land of 
 Veldt and Vlei. 
 
 The daylight breaks in the Eastern sky, and sinks to sleep in 
 
 the West; 
 Thus it is that our days go by, bringing their meed of rest. 
 The Future's hidden behind the veil, and the Past is still the 
 
 Past, 
 And the pace of the ox is the sliding scale that measures our 
 
 work at last. 
 
 The song of the ships is far to hear, the hum of the world is 
 
 dead, 
 And lotus life in a drowsy year our benison instead — 
 Why should we push the world along, live in a world of flame, 
 When the pace of the ox is steady and strong, and the end is 
 
 just the same ? 
 
 CULLEN GOULDSBURY.
 
 EAST AND WEST INDIES AND 
 CEYLON
 
 EAST AND WEST INDIES AND 
 CEYLON 
 
 ON THE ABOLITION OF SUTTEE i 
 
 Red from his chambers came the morning sun 
 
 And frowned, dark Ganges, on thy fatal shore, 
 Journeying on high; but when the day was done 
 
 He set in smiles, to rise in blood no more. 
 Hark ! heard ye not ? The widow's wail is over, 
 
 No more the flames from impious pyres ascend, 
 See Mercy, now primeval peace restore. 
 
 While pagans glad the arch ethereal rend, 
 For India hails at last her father and her friend. 
 
 Back to its cavern ebbs the tide of crime, 
 
 There fettered, locked, and powerless it sleeps; 
 And History, bending o'er the page of time. 
 
 Where many a mournful record still she keeps, 
 The widowed Hindoo's fate no longer weeps; 
 
 The priestly tyrants' cruel charm is broken. 
 And to his den alarmed the monster creeps; 
 
 The charm that mars his mystic spell is broken. 
 O'er all the land 'tis spread he trembles at the token. 
 
 Bentinck, be thine the everlasting meed ! 
 
 The heart's full homage still is virtue's claim, 
 And 'tis the good man's ever honoured deed 
 
 Which gives an immortality to fame: 
 Transient and fierce, though dazzling is the flame 
 
 That glory lights upon the wastes of war: 
 Nature unborn shall venerate thy name, 
 
 A triumph than the conqueror's greater far, 
 Thy memory shall be blessed as is the morning star. 
 1 Suttee declared illegal in 1829.
 
 3i8 On the Abolition of Suttee 
 
 He is the friend of man who breaks the seal, 
 
 The despot custom sets in deed and thought. 
 He labours generously for human weal 
 
 Who holds the omnipotence of fear as nought; 
 The winged mind will not to earth be brought, 
 
 'Twill sink to clay if it imprisoned be; 
 For 'tis with high immortal longings fraught; 
 
 And these are dimmed or quenched eternally, 
 Until it feels the hand that sets its pinions free. 
 
 And woman hath endured, and still endures 
 
 Wrong, which her weakness, and her woes should 
 shield. 
 The slave and victim of the treacherous lures 
 
 Which wily arts, to man the tyrant, yield. 
 And how the sight of star, or flower, or field, 
 
 Or bird that journeys through the sunny air. 
 Or social bliss, from woman has been sealed. 
 
 To her, the sky is dark, the earth is bare. 
 And Heaven's most hallowed breath pronounced for- 
 bidden fare. 
 
 Nurtured in darkness, bom to many woes. 
 
 Words, the mind's instrument but ill supplied. 
 Delight, even as a name she scarcely knows. 
 
 And while an infant sold to be a bride, 
 To be a mother, her exalted pride; 
 
 And yet not hers a mother's sigh or smile, 
 Oft doomed in youth to stem the icy tide 
 
 Of rude neglect, caused by some wanton's wile, 
 And forced at last to grace her lord's funeral pile. 
 
 Daughters of Europe ! by our Ganges side 
 
 Which wept and murmured as it flowed along. 
 Have wives, yet virgins, nay yet infants died. 
 
 While priestly fiends have yelled a dismal song 
 'Mid deafening clamours, of the drum and gong: 
 
 And mothers on their pyres have seen the hands, 
 Which clung around them when those hands were young, 
 
 Lighting around them such unholy brands 
 As demons kindle when they rave through hell in bands:
 
 Cawnpore 319 
 
 But with prophetic ken, dispelling fears 
 
 Which haunt the mind that dwells on Nature's plan, 
 The Bard beholds through mists of coming years 
 
 A rising spirit speaking peace to man, 
 The storm is passing, and the Rainbow's span 
 
 Stretcheth from North to South: the ebon car 
 Of darkness rolls away ; the breezes fan 
 
 The infant dawn, and morning's herald star 
 Comes trembling into day: ! can the Sun be far? 
 
 Henry Louis Vivian Derozio. 
 
 CAWNPORE 
 
 {In MeiTwriam, July 11, 1857 — 1901) 
 
 Linger and muse awhile, for little change is here; 
 
 This is the place, the vale of death, the haunt of shame and 
 
 fear; 
 Linger and muse and mark the gleaming river pass, 
 The brazen sky, the shimmering air, the tall white-tufted 
 
 grass. 
 
 This is the place of doom, where darkest shades are near, 
 Where deepest grief is mute and still, and wrath can shed no 
 
 tear; 
 Haggard and worn and wan, in garments ghastly red, 
 The phantom shapes flit to and fro, the spirits of our dead 1 
 
 Hunger and pain and thirst, and fever's burning breath 
 Long since had slain all hopes of aid, save hope of kindly 
 
 death ; 
 See in yon grisly den, with anguish pale and wild, 
 Waiting for death, their only friend. Mother and Maid and 
 
 Child! 
 
 Ah, bitter was their cup, and ah, the fatal day. 
 
 When one fierce fiend in human shape o'er life and death held 
 
 sway 1 
 Horror beheld aghast, and Murder veiled her eyes, 
 When men went forth, if men they were, to work such 
 
 butcheries.
 
 320 The Hindu Ascetic 
 
 There is the place of death, unchanged by fifty years, 
 
 And still we wet the nameless grave with bitter, blinding 
 
 tears ; 
 Though graves like grass decay, and Time must change the 
 
 spot. 
 Full many a fifty year shall pass ere these shall be forgot. 
 
 Now peace be on the dead, thrice peace beneath the sod, 
 Unknown to us who weep their fate, how surely known to 
 
 God! 
 Low in your grave lie still ! Saith not the Lord of Hosts, 
 " Vengeance is mine, I will repay " ? Lie still, ye piteous 
 
 ghosts ! 
 
 Low in your grave lie still, ye hapless tortured souls. 
 
 Till the new Dawn shall rise to light the darkness of the 
 
 poles, 
 Justice and Truth on earth, with Mercy shall prevail. 
 And the great trump in glorious might the Lord of Hosts shall 
 
 hail 
 
 C. W. Waddington. 
 
 THE HINDU ASCETIC 
 
 Here as I sit by the Jumna bank, 
 
 Watching the flow of the sacred stream, 
 
 Pass me the legions, rank on rank. 
 And the cannons roar, and the bayonets gleam. 
 
 Is it a God or a King that comes? 
 
 Both are evil, and both are strong; 
 With women and worshipping, dancing and drums; 
 
 Carry your Gods and your Kings along. 
 
 Fanciful shapes of a plastic earth. 
 
 These are the visions that weary the eye; 
 
 These I may 'scape by a luckier birth, 
 Musing, and fasting, and hoping to die.
 
 Suttee 
 
 321 
 
 When shall these phantoms flicker away? 
 
 Like the smoke of the gun on the wind-swept hill, 
 Like the sounds and colours of yesterday: 
 
 And the soul have rest and the air be still. 
 
 Sir Alfred Comyn Lyall. 
 
 THE PURDAH NASHINi 
 
 Her life is a revolving dream 
 Of languid and sequestered ease; 
 
 Her girdles and her fillets gleam 
 Like changing fires on sunset seas; 
 
 Her raiment is like morning mist, 
 
 Shot opal, gold, and amethyst. 
 
 From thieving light of eyes impure, 
 From coveting sun or wind's caress. 
 
 Her days are guarded and secure 
 Behind her carven lattices, 
 
 Like jewels in a turbaned crest. 
 
 Like secrets in a lover's breast. 
 
 But though no hand unsanctioned dares 
 Unveil the mysteries of her grace. 
 
 Time lifts the curtain unawares. 
 And sorrow looks into her face — 
 
 Who shall prevent the subtle years, 
 
 Or shield a woman's eyes from tears? 
 
 SUTTEE 
 
 Lamp of my life, the lips of Death 
 Have blown thee out with their sudden breath; 
 Naught shall revive thy vanished spark — 
 Love, must I dwell in the living dark? 
 
 Tree of my life, Death's cruel foot 
 Hath crushed thee down to thy hidden root; 
 Naught shall restore thy glory fled — 
 Shall the blossom live when the tree is dead? 
 ' Purda women, or women of the curtain.
 
 322 The Indian Gipsy 
 
 Life of my life, Death's bitter sword 
 Hath severed us like a broken word, 
 Rent us in twain who are but one — 
 Shall the flesh survive when the soul is gone? 
 
 NIGHTFALL IN THE CITY OF HYDERABAD. 
 
 See how the speckled sky burns like a pigeon's throat, 
 Jewelled with embers of opal and peridote. 
 
 See the white river that flashes and scintillates, 
 Curved like a tusk from the mouth of the city-gates. 
 
 Hark, from the minaret how the muezzin's call 
 Floats like a battle-flag over the city wall. 
 
 From trellised balconies languid and luminous 
 Faces gleam, veiled in a splendour voluminous. 
 
 Leisurely elephants wind through the winding lanes. 
 Swinging their silver bells hung from their silver chains. 
 
 Round the high Char Minar sounds of gay cavalcades 
 Blend with the music of cymbals and serenades. 
 
 Over the city bridge Night comes majestical, 
 Borne like a queen to a sumptuous festival. 
 
 THE INDIAN GIPSY 
 
 In tattered robes that hoard a glittering trace 
 Of bygone colours, broidered to the knee, 
 Behold her, daughter of a wandering race. 
 Tameless, with the bold falcon's agile grace, 
 And the lithe tiger's sinuous majesty.
 
 Song of Ind 323 
 
 With frugal skill her simple wants she tends, 
 She folds her tawny heifers and her sheep 
 On lonely meadows when the daylight ends, 
 Ere the quiet night upon her flock descends 
 Like a black panther from the caves of sleep. 
 
 Time's river winds in foaming centuries 
 
 Its changing; swift, irrevocable course 
 
 To far off and incalculable seas; 
 
 She is twin-born with primal mysteries. 
 
 And drinks of life at Time's forgotten source. 
 
 Sarojini Naidu. 
 
 GOOD AND BAD THOUGHTS 
 
 {From the Dhammapada) 
 
 Our natures all proceed from thoughts 
 In thought they lie, all thoughts they are; 
 If with a thought with evil fraught 
 Or words or deeds one doth unbar, 
 Then one by pain is chased and sought, 
 As is the best by wheel or car. 
 
 Our natures all proceed from thought, 
 In thought they lie, all thought they are; 
 If with a thought with goodness fraught 
 Or words or deeds one doth unbar, 
 Then one by bliss is chased and sought, 
 As by one shadow going far. 
 
 SONG OF IND 
 
 (From Roby Tagore) 
 
 CHARMER of the whole world's round, 
 O land of brightest sunshine, Ind, 
 My parents' parent thou ! 
 
 Thy feet are washed by azure seas. 
 Thy green hem trembles on the breeze. 
 Thy sun-kist front the snow mount is, 
 White frost doth crown thy brow.
 
 324 
 
 On Tibet 
 
 The earliest dawn was on thy dome, 
 Psahns eadiest from thy woods did come, 
 Spread earliest on thy sylvan home 
 Knowledge and truth enow. 
 
 blest, thou ever hallow'd land, 
 That feedest many a foreign strand, 
 Flowest into Gangee, Jumna bland, 
 Pure nectar-bosomed thou ! 
 
 ON TIBET 
 
 Deep in the bosom dark of Mystery, 
 Housed in the gleam of days that are no more, 
 And dreams that like her Himalayas soar 
 To height incredible — methinks I see 
 The land of mystic faith and Llamas hoar 1 
 
 A glamour through the creeping sunset steals, 
 Weird Tibet, o'er thy snow-encircled brow; 
 A glamour from the Occident, that now 
 Silent pursues thy gloom engirdled heels. 
 Mother of fossil modes and customs thou ! 
 
 Thou mighty miracle of centuries 
 To us, the dwellers in the setting sun, 
 Perpetual dream-land, child of sunrise dun. 
 Who " tearest out of thought " man's memories, 
 Grim in thy glory, till thy race be run I 
 
 Land of the faith by pensive Bhudda rear'd, — 
 Where thought is stable, prayers are roll'd by wheels. 
 Faith moves with a dull motion as she feels 
 Her way thro' gloom of births — where Fate is feared, 
 God is unknown, and man in darkness reels ! 
 
 RoBY Datta.
 
 Song of Kalindl 325 
 
 SONG OF KALINDI 1 
 
 The Hindus divide the year into two seasons, placing the dewy season 
 between winter and spring, and the rains between summer and 
 winter. 
 
 The fresh wind blows from Northern snows; 
 
 The nights are dark with dew; 
 A mound of fire the Simal ^ glows; 
 
 The young rice shoots anew; 
 In mornings cool from reedy pool 
 
 Up springs the whistling crane; 
 The wild fowl fly through sunset sky; 
 
 The sweet juice fills the cane. 
 Come, Krishna ! ^ from the tyrant proud 
 
 How long shall virtue flee? 
 The lightning loves the evening cloud, 
 
 And I love thee. 
 
 The breeze moves slow with thick perfume 
 
 From every mango grove; 
 From coral-tree to parrot bloom * 
 
 The black bees questing rove: 
 The koil wakes the early dawn, — 
 
 He calls the spring all day; 
 The jasmine smiles by glade and lawn; 
 
 The lake with birds is gay. 
 Come, Krishna !. leave Vaskunthas' ^ bower; 
 
 Do thou our refuge be; 
 The koiil loves the mango flower, 
 
 And I love thee. 
 
 Low from the brink the waters shrink; 
 
 The deer all snuff for rain ; 
 The fainting cattle search for drink 
 
 Cracked glebe and dusty plain; 
 
 1 Kalindl is the daughter of the Sun. 
 
 ^ The silk cotton-tree — a mass of red blossom before its leaves come. 
 
 ^ Krishna was an incarnation of Vishnu. 
 
 * An orange scarlet pea-flower — thought like the parrot's beak. 
 
 ^ The heaven of Vishnu.
 
 326 Song of Kalindi 
 
 The whirlwind h'ke a furnace blast, 
 
 Sweeps clouds of darkening sand ; 
 The forest flames; the beasts aghast 
 
 Plunge huddling from the land. 
 Come, Krishna ! come, beloved one ! 
 
 Descend and comfort me: 
 The lotus loves the summer sun, 
 
 And I love thee. 
 
 With dancing feet glad peafowl greet 
 
 Bright flash and rumbling cloud; 
 Down channels steep red torrents sweep; 
 
 The frogs give welcome loud ; 
 From branch and spray hang blossoms gay; 
 
 The wood has second birth; 
 No stars in skies, but lantern-flies 
 
 Seem stars that float to earth. 
 Come, Krishna ! come, in our day of gloom 
 
 Be thou our Kalfa ^ tree; 
 The wild bee loves the Paska ^ bloom. 
 
 And I love thee. 
 
 The skies are bright with cloudless light, 
 
 Like silver shells that float; 
 The stars and moon loom large by night; 
 
 The lilies launch their boat; 
 Fair laughs the plain with ripened grain; 
 
 With birds resounds the brake; 
 Along the sand white egrets stand ; 
 
 The wild fowl fill the lake. 
 Come, Krishna! come, let thy servants soon 
 
 Thy perfect beauty see; 
 The water-lily loves the moon,-"^ 
 
 And I love thee. 
 
 The morning mist lies close and still ; 
 
 The hoar frost gems the lea; 
 The dew falls chill, the wind blows shrill; 
 
 The leaves have left the tree; 
 
 ' Tree of heaven which grants every wish. 
 
 * The white lotus. 
 
 ' The white water-lily opens its blossoms by night.
 
 The Lamentation of Aga 327 
 
 The cups are gone; tlie fields are bare; 
 
 The deer pass grazing by ; 
 And plaintive through the twilight air 
 
 Is heard the curlew's cry. 
 Come, Krishna ! comC;, my lord, my own ! 
 
 From prison set me free; 
 The Chakravaki ^ pines alone 
 
 As I for thee. 
 
 THE LMfENTATION OF AGA 
 (From the Raghuvansa, a Chronicle of Ragku's line.) 
 
 King Aga, son of Raghu and grandfather of Rama, was married to a 
 nymph enchanted to the form of a princess. Her spell was to 
 cease when she met the flowers of her native paradise. When 
 the king and queen were walking in a wood Narada passed and a 
 gust of wind carried his garland to the queen, on which she 
 swooned and died. 
 
 My own, my loveliest, 
 I clasp thee to my breast, 
 
 A lute with chords unstrung; 
 Hushed is thy music tone. 
 An evening lotus lone. 
 No bee to murmur deep its snowy leaves among, 
 
 Hath beauty power to slay? 
 Loved blossoms sweet and gay 
 
 Destroy that perfect form ? 
 Ay ! softest natures oft 
 Death smitest with weapons soft; 
 Snow-rills the lotus kill which braved the pelting storm. 
 
 Then wreath of vakul sweet 
 Remaineth incomplete, 
 
 We plaited hand in hand; 
 Thou didst begin the rite 
 These graceful trees to unite,^ 
 But now their yearning boughs must long unwedded stand. 
 
 1 Brahmin duck — Indian emblem of conjugal affection. 
 * It was a favourite amusement of Hindu ladies to arch by a marriage 
 ceremony two trees in their garden.
 
 328 The Lamentation of Aga 
 
 The Ashokas' ^ fertile shoot, 
 Of thy sweet touch the fruit, 
 
 Its flower above thee weeps; 
 I thought to bind thy hair 
 With these blossoms red and fair; 
 How can they deck the pyre whereon my darling sleeps? 
 
 The Chakravaka ^ soon 
 Rejoins his mate; the moon 
 
 Brings joy once more to night; 
 These wait and trust, but I 
 Look vainly to the sky, 
 Which mocks my kisses with winds that wave thy ringlets 
 
 light. 
 
 The tinkling girdle pressed 
 So close thy gentle breast. 
 
 It knew each secret beat; 
 Now on thy heart it lies. 
 Silent in its melodies, 
 As though its spirit still went with its mistress sweet. 
 
 A bitter tear-mixed draught 
 Must by thy shade be quaffed 
 
 For wine of glad desire ; 
 A couch of leaves new-spread 
 Was once too harsh a bed ; 
 How will thy tender limbs endure the cruel pyre? 
 
 Thy voice the koils ^ show. 
 Thy timid glance the doe, 
 To lighten my distress; 
 The swans thy stately pace. 
 The wind-waved boughs thy grace ; — 
 But these are not my love, and I am comfortless. 
 
 My light is ffed to-day; 
 My glory wanes away; 
 
 My state a joyless throne; 
 My songs henceforth have ceased; 
 My year is void of feast; 
 My brave array is lost; my couch is dark and lone. 
 
 * Jossesia asoca — said to flower when touched by a lady's hand. 
 
 * Brahmin's duck. ^ The Indian cuckoo.
 
 Translation of Burmese Songs 329 
 
 Had I offended aught, 
 
 Thy gentle heart no thought 
 
 Of anger felt to me; 
 Why are my prayers unheard? 
 Without one farewell word, 
 To leave thine only love, who never loved but thee ! 
 
 Thy friends were true each one; 
 An orbed moon thy son; 
 
 Thy husband, thine through life. 
 Oh, what to me is left, 
 By death of thee bereft. 
 The partner of my joys, my friend, companion, wife? 
 
 William Waterfield. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF BURMESE SONGS 
 
 A lover's lament 
 
 Hard is my lot, and unassuaged my yearning. 
 How have the gods ordained? 
 (Wrap well my robe about me, for I shiver.) 
 Distraught with sorrow, on my gold-lacquer couch 
 Wildly I ask myself, Where is my love, my glorious jewel? 
 Is't in the round heaven. 
 Where the moon spreads his beams afar, afar, 
 Radiating, 
 Radiating over all, 
 
 Reaching into the dimness with shimmering waves? 
 Under a load of grief I reel and swoon. 
 Blinded, dazed, bowed down with sorrow. 
 With remembrance of my woe. 
 
 IN THE FOREST 
 
 The place is dim and grey, the darkness spreads: 
 The feet of cloudland enter, the silver mists commingle. 
 Sweet-smelling zephyrs whirl and kiss each other, 
 And many a flower blossoms in the glades.
 
 330 
 
 Vale ! 
 
 Clusters of lilies deck the way- 
 Clusters of scented lilies. 
 But that I yearn for is not, 
 And I am weary: yet 'tis sweet — 
 The woods, the driven mist on the hillsides- 
 'Tis wondrous sweet ! 
 
 LOVE -DITTY 
 
 Little one, whose radiance fills 
 
 All the house with light: 
 Dainty form that daily thrills 
 
 Thy lover with delight! 
 Flashing black with emerald sheen 
 
 Like wing of humble-bee 
 Tresses trim that measure sure 
 
 Cubits more than three! 
 Pure thou art as gold refined, 
 
 Ne'er a blemish thine: 
 Thuza's self is not more fair, 
 
 Nor Saddan's form divine. 
 Smooth limbs with beauty graced: 
 Swelling bosom, supple waist: 
 
 Not Zabu itself, I ween, 
 That enchanted isle, could show, 
 Searcht from end to end, a maiden 
 
 Fairer than my queen ! 
 
 R. Grant Brown. 
 
 VALE ! 
 
 Farewell, ye rocks of sandstone; 
 
 Farewell, ye sodden Kioins ; ^ 
 Ye stately toddy-palm groves; 
 
 Ye shady thayet-bi7is} 
 
 Farewell, ye teak-tree forests, 
 That fringe the fertile plains; 
 
 Farewell, ye rain-swept mountains; 
 Ye dusty village lanes. 
 1 Kwins : Fields. " Thayet-biiis : Mango trees.
 
 Audi et Alteram Partem 331 
 
 Farewell, ye rocky torrents; 
 
 Ye trickling sandy choungs ; 
 Farewell, swift Irrawaddy, 
 
 The home of racing loimgs}- 
 
 Farewell, ye gaudy parrots ; 
 
 Ye sober birds that pipe; 
 Ye iridescent peacocks; 
 
 Ye jungle-fowl and snipe. 
 
 Farewell, sagacious hathis^ 
 
 That toil at Kemmendine; 
 Ye gallant-hearted ponies; 
 
 Ye patient ploughing-kine. 
 
 Farewell, ye gold pagodas; 
 
 Ye bright melodious tees ; ^ 
 Farewell, ye milk-white temples 
 
 Beneath the tamarind trees. 
 
 Farewell, ye laughing maidens; 
 
 The sunshine of your smiles 
 Extends across the oceans. 
 
 Five thousand watery miles! 
 
 AUDI ET ALTERAM PARTEM 
 
 When you first went out to Burma, 
 
 To the dust and glare and heat, 
 Where the white man's food is garbage, 
 
 And the moorghi * does for meat. 
 You abused the shrill mosquito. 
 
 You anathematised the dJioop^ 
 And you cursed the gentle poochie ^ 
 
 For expiring in your soup. 
 
 1 Loung : A Burmese racing boat. 
 
 2 Hathis : Elephants. 
 
 ^ Tee : The part of the pagoda from which the bells are suspended. 
 
 * Moorghi : Hind for fowl. 
 ^ Dhoop : The sun. 
 
 * Poochie : An insect.
 
 332 Audi et Alteram Partem 
 
 Refrain 
 
 But to-day that you are pensioned 
 
 And frequent St. James' Square, 
 You revile the British dimate 
 
 With its cold and misty air. 
 You complain if chicken curry 
 
 Ain't upon the bill of fare; 
 And you yearn for juicy mangoes, 
 
 And a jail long-sleever chair. 
 
 You remember how you shivered 
 
 (In the shade, 'twas ninety-nine) 
 When malaria turned your muscles 
 
 Into masticated twine; 
 When, like molten lead, the fever 
 
 Burned its way along your veins, 
 And you vowed that h-11 were better 
 
 Than the Delta in the rains. 
 
 Refrain 
 
 But to-day that you are pensioned 
 
 And frequent St. James' Square, 
 You bewail the blinding blizzard 
 
 (Fit to freeze a polar bear); 
 Round about you folks are ailing 
 
 From bronchitis and the " flue," 
 And you sigh for sunny Burma 
 
 Where no blizzard ever blew. 
 
 In the wild archaic eighties. 
 
 When you chased Boh Nam-le-boo, 
 On Chicago beef and biscuits, 
 
 And a striker miner's " screw," 
 You were worked until you sweated 
 
 Like a coolie in the Rand; 
 And you cursed the day you travelled 
 
 Out to " India's coral strand." 
 
 Refrain 
 
 But to-day that you are pensioned 
 And frequent St. James' Square,
 
 A Lay of the Derby Sweep 333 
 
 You step gently on the carpet 
 
 And select the cosiest chair. 
 Once again you fight your battles — 
 
 Draw the elongated bow, 
 And declare, " The good old days, sir, 
 
 They have gone to Jericho ! " 
 
 All alone amidst the jungles, 
 
 You endured an exile's Hfe; 
 For the pay that Simla grudged you 
 
 Would not let you take a wife; 
 Sickly rodents squirmed around you, 
 
 Plague came prowling round your doors, 
 And you prayed the gods to let you 
 
 Quit those pestilential shores. 
 
 Refrain 
 
 But to-day that you are pensioned 
 
 And frequent St. James' Square, 
 Vain to seek for boyhood's comrades— 
 
 They have " climbed the golden stair." 
 Ah ! your thoughts drift back to Burma, 
 
 To your pals a-toiling there. 
 To the Shwe Dagon at sunset; _ 
 
 To — your Judson's dictionnaire ! 
 
 A LAY OF THE DERBY SWEEP 
 
 '' Bengali chap " was Chandra Dass, 
 Loquacious, lying, and an ass; 
 The telegraphic Babu he 
 At calorific Twinklegyi. 
 Though versed in all Vedantic lore. 
 He loved Finance a great deal more. 
 Like Gunga Din, the lust of pice 
 Was Chandra D.'s prevailing vice.
 
 334 ^ Lay of the Derby Sweep 
 
 One day he thought he'd try a " flutter," 
 
 So sent an order to Calcutta, 
 
 And bought (he deemed it far from cheap) 
 
 A ticket in the Derby Sweep. 
 
 Oh, wond'rous are the ways of Fate ! 
 
 His ticket — number 978, 
 
 With nom de plume " A Slave of Morse " — 
 
 Drew Marmaduke, the favourite horse. 
 
 The race was fixed for June the third. 
 
 An earlier date he'd have preferred, 
 
 So many things might well take place 
 
 Before the running of the race. 
 
 He heard (it seemed a shame — a sin) 
 
 That " favourites " do not always win; 
 
 That (worse ! ) they sometimes strain the heart, 
 
 Or sprain a limb and fail to " start." 
 
 Upon the first of steaming June, 
 
 A telegram came from Rangoon 
 
 For Mr. Bland, the D.S.P. 
 
 (The message passed through Chandra D.): 
 
 " Fear Marmaduke, when jumping wall, 
 
 Has injured knee — a nasty fall ; 
 
 Impossible to start on third." 
 
 Thus ran the wire (a " State deferred! ") 
 
 When Chandra Dass this message read. 
 He beat his breast, and bowed his head; 
 In bitter disappointment, he 
 Shed saline tears, and sweated ghee. 
 Then falling on his knees, he prayed: — 
 " Oh ! Vishnu, I implore thy aid, 
 I cannot win ; assist me then 
 To save my stake of rupees ten." 
 
 This abject plea moved Brahma's sire 
 
 The doleful suppliant to inspire. 
 
 Who straightway called his peon Ko Poo, 
 
 A cooly lout — a mere Yahoo. 
 
 Said Chandra: " Man, I owe you pay — 
 
 Your stipend for the month of May. 
 
 To square my debts I never fail: 
 
 I'll pay you now upon the nail.
 
 A Lay of the Derby Sweep 335 
 
 " Well, here's the coin. I must remark 
 Of pity you have not a spark. 
 Does not your wife, at Sandoway, 
 Deserve a portion of your pay? 
 The sum — let's say — of ten rupees 
 Your faithful wife would surely please. 
 You nod your head. Ah ! you agree 
 To do this act of charity. 
 
 " Now, if by hand, this sum you send, 
 You may be swindled by your friend ; 
 On money orders sent by post, 
 Commission is an extra cost. 
 So swap with me this Turf Club ticket 
 For ten rupees. You simply stick it 
 Within a cover, which you'll post. 
 The postage costs two pice at most. 
 
 " You nod your head. I clearly see 
 That you, once more, agree with me. 
 But, lest you some distrust might feel, 
 In front of witnesses we'll deal. 
 So that by neither can be said 
 This covenant was never made." 
 To terminate this patchwork screed, 
 Suffice it that Ko Poo agreed. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Upon the third the race was run. 
 And Marmaduke, the " favourite," won! 
 The Babu could not understand 
 Until he saw wee Marmie Bland, 
 Who, when he came to Twinklegyi, 
 Still slightly hmped upon one knee! 
 'Twas then he twigged (in racing " gup ") 
 How he had sold himself a pup. 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Ko Poo scooped in a lakh or two; 
 
 He owns an oil-field at Singu, 
 
 While Chandra Dass (he might do worse) 
 
 Is still a toiling " Slave of Morse! " 
 
 M. C. Conway Poole.
 
 33^ 
 
 Perfide Albion 
 
 PERFIDE ALBION 
 
 (A hitherto unwritten chapter of Oriental History) 
 
 Did you e'er meet a Gaul, patriotic in ton, 
 Who didn't call England " perfide Albion " ? 
 If you haven't as yet, you are certain to hear him 
 Whenever you mention the taking of Perim. 
 This Perim's an island 
 
 Devoid of a tree, 
 A baked bit of dry land 
 
 Below the Red Sea. 
 No Government owned it 
 
 A few years ago, 
 Till Great Britain boned it. 
 
 As soon I shall show. 
 It's dreadfully rocky, and frightfully hot, 
 And out of it not e'en a weed's to be got. 
 In fact, upon islands at large it's a blot. 
 And I'd rather be shot 
 Than be told that my lot 
 Was to dwell on that desolate, desolate spot. 
 
 But it stands in a strait at the Red Sea's mouth, 
 
 Commanding the passage or North or South; 
 
 And should matters in Eastern parts ever be critical, 
 
 Perim might prove of some value political. 
 
 At all events this was the statesmanlike view 
 
 That was taken by each diplomatic Mossoo. 
 
 " Ne possedent-ils pas Aden, ces Anglais, mon Dieu ! 
 
 Oui ; nous aurons Perim : Pourquoi non ? Sacre bleu ! 
 
 This was what the Bureaux designate une idee, 
 And the next thing to do was to make it unfail. 
 That's the usual course in affairs Continental 
 So why not adopt it in things Oriental? 
 
 " Ces Anglais " might swear. 
 
 Crying out 'twas unfair. 
 
 And a robbery bare; 
 And The Times in a leader might offer a prayer 
 For a country so greedy and mad as to dare 
 
 »j
 
 Perfide Albion 337 
 
 To maraud in the East, for the world was aware 
 
 That the East was Old England's peculiar care; 
 
 And The Times, as The Times, would have Frenchmen beware, 
 
 For that Perim might prove, after all, but a snare. 
 
 Entailing an outlay they couldn't well spare; 
 
 That France had already far more than her share — 
 
 Bourbon, Pondicherrey, and Chandemagore — 
 
 And 'twas monstrous to think she could want any more; 
 
 That other encumbrance might drain, couldn't better her. 
 
 And the sooner she dropped it — et caetera, et caetera 1 
 
 Thus argued Mossoo 
 
 That Old England would do; 
 But he added a pregnant corollary too: 
 
 " Let her talk if she likes. 
 
 She looks fierce, never strikes. 
 For John Bull is the servant of Mr. Bill Sikes. 
 She may swagger and bluster, and warn us, but we 
 Will inform her the thing is unjait accompli ; 
 
 And you'll probably see 
 
 That, although very hurt. 
 
 She will let matters be. 
 
 And will swallow the dirt." 
 
 The project thus having been carefully hatched, 
 
 " Un ordre " was to Bourbon or somewhere despatched 
 
 Telling Monsieur le Chef to send off a fast frigate 
 
 To Perim and, ere that the British could twig it. 
 
 To hoist the French drapeau upon it and prig it. 
 
 So a frigate was sent 
 
 With this wicked intent, 
 And with gaudy new drapeaux was heavily laden; 
 
 And the ship on her way 
 
 Just put in for a day 
 At the British adjacent possession of Aden. 
 
 Now, of course, what the role 
 She should play or the goal 
 She'd in view not a soul 
 On this freebooting ship 
 Gave the slenderest tip; 
 She might have been trying to find the South Pole.
 
 338 
 
 Perfide Albion 
 
 The sailors were feted, 
 
 And some got elated, 
 And Frenchmen and English a — malgamated. 
 
 But never a word 
 
 Of their mission was heard. 
 And this silence you'd think neither strange nor absurd 
 When I tell you that none of them knew. It was wrapped in 
 The innermost cell in the breast of the Captain, 
 The name of the Captain was Naucois de IBonheur, 
 Of, I hardly need say so, le Legion d'honneur ; 
 And our Gov'nor's name was Sir Thomas, he 
 Being (a va sans dire, a distinguished C.B. 
 The latter invited the Captain to dine. 
 And placed on his board some uncommon good wine. 
 Now, whether 'twas due to the port or the sherry, 
 
 A high seasoned fare, 
 
 Or British " portare," 
 
 Or the tropical air, 
 
 I cannot declare ; 
 But somehow or other they grew pretty merry. 
 Sir John Thomas, rising, rejoiced beyond measure, 
 In fact it was hard to express all his pleasure. 
 
 To see at his table 
 
 So gallant and able, 
 
 So brave and devoted, 
 
 So noble and noted, 
 A sailor of France as the guest on his right. 
 And he felt with a kind of prophetic foresight 
 That the object — he hoped they'd excuse the remark — 
 The object they kept so remarkably dark — 
 Be it fishing for turtles or finding new seas. 
 Or searching the East for proscribed refugees, 
 Or trying a gun on some beggarly village. 
 Or practising hands at a wee bit of pillage. 
 Would, unless some unfortunate accident dished it. 
 Be crowned with the thorough success that he wished it. 
 
 Then the gallant Mossoo, 
 With his hand on his star. 
 Said, " 1 tank you, parblcu ! 
 Varee moash, de ma part; 
 C'est defendu de dire,
 
 Perfide Albion 339 
 
 Ce que nous allons faire, 
 
 J'ai jure par I'Empire 
 
 Ma patrie et ma mere, 
 Mais . . . " perhaps 'twas the port had relaxed his discretion, 
 
 Perhaps he conceived 
 
 We'd be better deceived 
 By a make-show of candour, a touch of confession; 
 Perhaps he felt sure 'twas too late in the day 
 To matter if now he disclosed le secret ; 
 However it came about,*this much is certain, 
 He raised for a moment a bit of the curtain. 
 
 For he went on to say, 
 
 In a roundabout way, 
 That although 'twasn't proper to flash his objet, 
 He was bound, in his quest of it, up the Red Sea; 
 To some place which was only conjectured to be; 
 That he hadn't in view any war or alliance. 
 That his mission was purely connected with science ; 
 And that simply to fill up a page in his log. 
 And look at a shore, which to him was " incog.," 
 He intended to order his master to steer him. 
 En -passant, quite close to the island of Perim. 
 
 Then he grew sentimental, and red in the face. 
 
 And smothered an aide-de-camp in an embrace, 
 
 And swore he thought Aden a glorious place. 
 
 And kissed " Sir Jhon Thomars " (who made a grimace), 
 
 And called that brave soldier a vare joli tar 
 
 And wound it all up with a " heep, heep, hourah ! " 
 
 At the mention of Perim, Sir John nearly rose 
 
 From his chair, but recovered by blowing his nose. 
 
 He blew it a good twenty minutes at least. 
 
 And appeared to have done himself good when he ceased. 
 
 For there seemed something like to a wink in his eye. 
 
 As he whispered some words to an aide sitting by; 
 
 Which aide, when he heard, looked half funny half grave 
 
 As a man meditating a pun or a shave ; 
 
 Stole a glance at the captain, then one at Sir John, 
 
 Then seemed most intently the ceiling to con; 
 
 Then stared in his wine-glass right down to the bottom 
 
 As though there were flies in his wine, he'd got 'em:
 
 340 Perfide Albion 
 
 Then fidgeted jerkily looking behind, 
 As if to skedaddle occurred to his mind: 
 Then finally vanished in haste from his chair, 
 As if he'd the toothache or needed fresh air. 
 
 When he got well outside, 
 
 Where the darkness could hide. 
 He walked down the hill out of sound of the revel, 
 
 Then his cap up he shied, 
 
 And he laughed till he cried. 
 
 Then he took to his legs and he ran like the d 1 — 
 
 Ran till he stood, void of breath, on the poop 
 
 Of a nice little tight little British war-sloop; 
 
 And the message he gave, amid roars, to the skipper 
 
 Was, just as that worthy expressed it, a clipper. 
 
 The night was still young when the snug little ship 
 
 Left Aden as on some mysterious trip; 
 
 And the aide saw the rock sinking down to a speck, 
 
 As he danced an expressive pas seul on the deck. 
 
 The feed came, of course, like all feeds, to a close. 
 
 Potations concluded, the Frenchmen all rose. 
 
 There were farewells ecstatic, embracings convulsive, 
 
 And kisses — eugh! slobberings, that is the word: 
 
 Sir John thought le Capitaine highly repulsive, 
 
 Le Capitaine thought Sir John highly absurd; 
 
 But they hugged and they shrugged, 
 
 And parted in sorrow, 
 
 And spoke very huskily both of the morrow, 
 
 As if it would dawn on twin hearts rudely cleft. 
 
 And it wasn't all humbug and over the left. 
 
 Well the morrow did dawn, and the jaunty French ship, 
 
 At the first streak of light gave her moorings the slip. 
 
 De Bonheur arose too betimes from his bed. 
 
 With a dolorous sense of possessing a head. 
 
 But he said to himself as he fixed his two eyes on 
 
 The island of Perim, just on the horizon — 
 
 " Sir John Thomas, when he shall hear of my prize, 
 
 Will possess a head too, and will flatter my eyes." 
 
 Then his sabre he buckled, 
 
 And swaggered and chuckled, 
 And got the new drapeaux all out of the hold,
 
 Perfide Albion 341 
 
 And ordered the gunners, 
 To fire off some stunners 
 That the glory of France might be properly told. 
 
 Soon the desolate shore 
 
 Topped the waves more and more, 
 
 Till the land, red and bare 
 
 In the pitiless glare, 
 
 Became clear to the view 
 
 Of the gallant Mossoo. 
 He balanced himself with his glass and looked out. 
 And, after a pause, put it down as in doubt! 
 Looked again: took his mouchoir and polished his lens; 
 Looked again: pitched it down and took one of his men's; 
 Looked again: blew his nose, rubbed his eyes, and once more 
 Took a long steady look — same result as before. 
 Laid it down, put his hands in his pockets, and swore. 
 He sacre-bleu-ed awful a minute or so, 
 And tapped at his brow as he paced to and fro, 
 As if he half dreaded his brains had got loose, 
 Or some fiend with his vision was playing the deuce. 
 At length, somewhat calmed, he returned to the charge, 
 This time with a telescope wonderfully large. 
 He looked : let it fall : stared to landward a bit 
 With protruding blank eyes, and — fell down in a fit. 
 
 And now, gentle reader, it's time that you knew 
 
 What horrors had burst on le Capitaine's view. 
 
 On a ridge on the island, which highest appeared, 
 
 A pretty tall flagstaff was solidly reared. 
 
 So tall 'twould have certainly shamed all the trees 
 
 Had there been any there ; and afloat on the breeze 
 
 Streamed the swelling expanse of the glorious old flag, 
 
 Which English affection and slang call " the Rag." 
 
 While beneath, hat in hand, were a group of Jack tars, 
 
 Engaged evidently in shouting hurrahs ; 
 
 And astride on a rock, 'neath an umbrella's shade. 
 
 Like the Sprite on the Scene, our acquaintance the aide. 
 
 Thus Perim was won. 
 
 And the Frenchmen were done, 
 
 And if a bit shabbv, 
 
 'Twas very good fun. Aliph Cheem.
 
 342 The Shores of Nothing 
 
 THE SHORES OF NOTHING 
 
 There's a little lake that lies 
 In a valley, where the skies 
 Kiss the mountains as they rise 
 
 On the crown; 
 And the heaven-born elite 
 Are accustomed to retreat 
 From the pestilential heat 
 
 Lower down. 
 
 When the mighty for a space 
 Mix with beauty, rank, and grace 
 (I myself was in the place 
 
 At my best!) 
 And the atmosphere's divine, 
 While the deodar and pine 
 Are particularly fine 
 
 For the chest. 
 
 And a little month ago, 
 When the sun was lying low, 
 And the water all aglow 
 
 Like a pearl, 
 I, remarkably arrayed. 
 Dipped an unobtrusive blade 
 In the lake — and in the shade — 
 
 With a girl. 
 
 0, 'twas pleasant thus to glide 
 On the " softly-flowing tide " 
 (Which it's not! ), and, undescried. 
 
 Take a hand 
 In the sweet, idyllic sports 
 That are known in such resorts, 
 To the sympathetic snorts 
 
 Of the Band. 
 
 Till when o'er the " still lagoon " 
 Passed the golden afternoon,
 
 " Kal " 343 
 
 The preposterous bassoon, 
 
 Growling deep, 
 Saved the King and knelled the day 
 As the crimson changed to grey 
 And the little valley lay 
 
 Half asleep. 
 
 It is finished. She was kind, 
 " Out of sight is out of mind," 
 But the taste remains behind 
 
 (And the bills). 
 And I'd give the world to know 
 If there's some one else in tow 
 With my love (a month ago) 
 In the Hills ! 
 
 ye valleys, tell me, pray, 
 Was she on the lake to-day ? 
 Does she foot it in the gay 
 
 Social whirl? 
 ye mountains of Gilboa, 
 Send a bird, or kindly blow a 
 Breeze to tell me all you know a- 
 
 Bout that girl ! 
 
 " KAL " i=TO-MORROW 
 
 Sweet word, by whose unwear}nng assistance 
 
 We of the ruling race, when sorely tried. 
 Can keep intrusive persons at a distance 
 
 And let unreasonable matters slide ; 
 Thou at whose blast the powers of irritation 
 
 Yield to a soft and gentlemanly lull 
 Of solid peace and flat Procrastination, 
 
 These to thy praise and honour good old Kal ! 
 
 For we are greatly plagued by sacrilegious 
 Monsters in human form, who care for naught 
 
 Save with incessant papers to besiege us, 
 E'en to the solemn hour of silent thought; 
 
 * Kal-ao=return to-morrow; Kal-lao=bring it back to-morrow, 
 each of which phrases is the euphemistic equivalent of Jao — " go away 
 (and stay there)."
 
 344 Lanka 
 
 They draw no line, the frightful joy of giving 
 Pain is their guerdon; but for Thee alone 
 
 Life would be hardly worth the bore of living, 
 No one could call his very soul his own. 
 
 But in thy name th' unfortunate besetter 
 
 Meets a repelling force that none can stem ; 
 Varlets may come (they do) and go (they'd better!), 
 
 Kal is the word that always does for them ! 
 To-morrow they may join the usual muster; 
 
 To-day shall pass unnotably by; 
 Beelzebub Himself for all his bluster 
 
 Would get the same old sickening reply. 
 
 And for thine aid in baffling the malignant. 
 
 Who with unholy art conspire to see 
 Our ease diseased, our dignity indignant, 
 
 We do thee homage on bended knee. 
 And I would add a word of common gratitude 
 
 To those thy coadjutors, ao and lao, 
 Who take with Thee th' uncompromising attitude 
 
 From which the dullest mind deduces Jao. 
 
 DuM DUM. 
 
 LANKA (CEYLON) 
 
 In that fair Isle for pearls renown'd, 
 Where lustrous gems far-famed are found ; 
 Where quartz-formed snow-white sand-plains yield 
 Rich spice from fragrant laurels^ peel'd; 
 Where as with emerald girdle bound 
 The shore with palms is belted round; 
 Where inland strewn lie relics vast. 
 Proud monuments, that ages past 
 Were built, while time should be, to last; 
 Where legends venerable declare 
 Abode mankind's primeval pair, 
 Adam with Eve, surpassing fair; 
 Where, in grand Indian epic old 
 Which rings of feats and exploits bold, 
 1 The Laurus cinnamomum.
 
 The Knuckles 345 
 
 In times when gods of men were made, 
 
 Scenes that with interest thick are laid; 
 
 When Sita from her loved land lured, 
 
 Ravana Demon-King immured, 
 
 Till, aided by Saguva's train, 
 
 Rama the ravisher had slain; 
 
 Where, when with wisdom glorious shone 
 
 King Solomon on Israel's throne. 
 
 Her merchants came in quest of gold 
 
 In ships with Tyrian crews enroll'd; 
 
 Where Gautama, the Prince and Sage, 
 
 And man most wondrous of his age. 
 
 The Bhuddist faith implanted firm 
 
 Long ere commenced the Christian term ; 
 
 Where, eras ere the Norman slew 
 
 Harold, and Britain brought to rue, 
 
 Wijaya, with his warlike horde. 
 
 Outlaws from Ind, by force or fraud 
 
 A monarchy supreme had gain'd 
 
 Where since eight-score-five kings have reign'd; 
 
 Where centuries past the Iberian race 
 
 'Neath flags of Portugal found place. 
 
 Till from each stronghold both were hurl'd, 
 
 And Holland's standard proud unfurl'd, 
 
 To float thrice fifty years, then droop 
 
 And vanish at Britannia's swoop: — 
 
 O'er all that Isle Ceylon yclept 
 
 Where Kandian kings their thrones had kept 
 
 And sceptres held against the clutch 
 
 Alike of Portuguese and Dutch, 
 
 The Mistress of the Sea her sway 
 
 Now holds ; her mandates all obey. 
 
 THE KNUCKLES 1 
 
 (A Mountainous District in the North-east of Ceylon) 
 
 Due East, majestical uprise 
 And spread their summits to the skies 
 In group that mark'd resemblance points 
 To a clench'd hand's protruding joints, 
 1 Written in 1868.
 
 34^ T"he Knuckles 
 
 The " Knuckles " — hills with contour grand 
 Embosoming a fairy land. 
 The district thus distinctive named 
 Here as in horse-shoe form is framed, 
 Each heel a massive mountain steep 
 Scarp'd with stern precipices deep; 
 The whole a vast granite screen 
 Ere o'er whose ridge the sun is seen, 
 From Ocean's bed that orb sublime 
 The eastern slope an hour must climb, 
 His advent heralding with rays 
 On far-off western peaks that blaze. 
 Then o'er the hills, dales, valleys, streams, 
 Sudden pours down her glowing beams 
 And bathes at once the prospect bright 
 In floods of vivifying light. 
 
 Not many an island scene can vie, 
 Or more entrance the raptured eye. 
 Than that, outspread as on a map. 
 Beheld from Battagalla gap. 
 From this high stand point, all around 
 Rise mountains huge — drop depths profound- 
 Spring watercourses — streamlets brawl — 
 Rush eyas ^ here — there cascades fall — 
 While far away, like ribands red. 
 Roads o'er the hills and valleys spread, 
 And built on many a charming spot 
 The planters' homes the landscape dot. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 The elk and elephant have here 
 In forests dense their coverts drear, 
 Harried and hunted only when 
 They trespass on the haunts of men. 
 Here, with his grunting brood, the boar 
 Roams, roots about with savage mien 
 Watching, and whetting his curv'd tusks keen 
 A dangerous brute:— with visage hoar 
 Here the black wanderoos are seen. 
 Gambolling on the foliage green. 
 But soon as stranger's form they pry, 
 • Streams.
 
 Rondeau 347 
 
 As swift as twinkling of an eye, 
 
 With bellowing, back from tree to tree 
 
 They bound, and far his presence flee. 
 
 Exuberant in every form 
 
 Springs vegetation here — moist, warm 
 
 The atmosphere, where run the streams 
 
 That sparkle in the sun's bright beams, 
 
 Wide scattering spray — and rich the tints 
 
 Dame Nature lavishly imprints 
 
 On grapes, trees, buds, ferns, and flowers. 
 
 With which her kingdom here she dowers. 
 
 While soaring in the blue serene 
 
 Aerial hunters may be seen. 
 
 Birds of the swift-wing'd falcon tribe, 
 
 That sweeping circles vast describe. 
 
 Or swoop like lightning from the sky 
 
 When they their destin'd prey descry. 
 
 These at this height, where rarely man 
 
 Ventures the prospect broad to scan, 
 
 The sense of solitude reheve, 
 
 And bid the gazer glad receive 
 
 Each beauteous view that eye doth strike. 
 
 And mind and heart delight aUke, 
 
 While from the vastness of the whole 
 
 Sense of sublime steals o'er the soul. 
 
 William Skeen. 
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 (By Kandy Lake) 
 
 PLACID lake ! I, standing nigh, 
 Scarce can preserve an undimmed eye. 
 So deep thy beauty. On thy marge 
 The bamboo shyly bends. At large, 
 Unchecked, the gracile herons fly 
 Swift skimming o'er thy mimic sky 
 Of blue intense. Bright cloudlets lie 
 
 Athwart the bows of yon brown lurking barge, 
 placid lake!
 
 34^ The Taj at Agra 
 
 Thy hills around keep ward on high, 
 Meseems they say, " On us rely, 
 
 turquoise rare — our sacred charge ; 
 
 We shall present a stubborn targe 
 And all thy jealous foes defy, 
 
 placid lake ! " 
 
 J. H. S. 
 
 GANESSA THE GOD 
 
 Beside the dancing of the eastern waves, 
 
 Straight-facing towards the rising sun, arose 
 
 Ganessa's temple, where the weary god 
 
 Sat ever listless gazing down the East, 
 
 Watching new days arise from paths of Time, 
 
 All changeful, bringing change to changing worlds, 
 
 Himself alone unchang'd, dull, pondering 
 
 Upon the unsolved mysteries that dawn'd 
 
 From out the cradle of the mom of days. 
 
 And round about him, jingled charm of prayer 
 
 Rose mutter'd meaningless from Brahmans blind, 
 
 Whose eyes turn'd backward to the old dead days, 
 
 Seeing no dawn of newer faith arise; 
 
 While dancing girls around the old god's throne 
 
 Wav'd woven arms and lissome bodies sway'd 
 
 To weird low music through dim vaulted aisles; 
 
 But on them all the god's eye lifeless fell, 
 
 He heard no charm of woven prayer nor dance, 
 
 But gaz'd for ever down the weary East. 
 
 H. W. Green. 
 
 THE TAJ AT AGRA 
 
 A DREAM in marble — beauteous as a dream 1 
 The dream of lovers, whose rich fancies gild 
 The happy future that they look to build 
 
 Radiant with hope and true love's golden gleam ! 
 
 Pause, thou who gazest where the moon-rays stream 
 On marble gate and dome and minaret: 
 Or where the living fountains sparkle yet,
 
 The Tamil Maid 349 
 
 And dance in brilliance with the noon-day beam. 
 What mean these cool retreats, these gardens fair, 
 This glory by the banks of Jumna's tide? 
 
 Here is the passion of a heart laid bare, 
 
 Knowing love's worth, that naught was worth beside. 
 And here too breathes, perchance, a calmer air, 
 
 Of love resign'd, expectant, sanctified. 
 
 Bel. 
 
 THE TAMIL MAID 
 
 Where through the jungle's shade 
 Men's feet a path have made, 
 Comes a tall Tamil maid 
 Sauntering slow! 
 
 In her red Sele dressed 
 Lightly the grass she pressed. 
 And the glad leaves caressed 
 Each little toe. 
 
 Twined is her long black hair 
 On neck and shoulders bare; 
 Her ears and ankles rare 
 Gaily bedight. 
 
 Sunlight her bosom warms 
 Glancing athwart her charms; 
 Bangles upon her arms 
 Shine silver-bright, 
 
 Brown are her lovely eyes, 
 Lit with a sweet surprise, 
 Deep as the shadow lies 
 Under the sea. 
 
 Teeth like the dews of morn 
 Blithely her hps adorn. 
 Lips with a look half scorn, 
 Peerless and free. 
 
 E. C. DUMBLETON,
 
 350 Kramat 
 
 A SANSKRIT STANZA 
 
 Loved Lotus-blooms, ail white and red, 
 On silv'ry streams a lustre shed; 
 And in their beauty, dear, I trace 
 The image of thy lovely face. 
 
 In Lotus-cups of azure hue, 
 I see thine eyes, bright, beauteous, blue; 
 Thy teeth displayed in laughter light 
 Excel the fragrant jasmine white. 
 
 Forth shoot the leaf-buds, ruby red. 
 On velvet verdure grace to shed : 
 But these despair when thou art nigh — 
 Thy lips are of a richer dye. 
 
 The perfumed champac, I declare. 
 Can scarcely with thy charms compare; 
 Brahma gave thee these gifts, I own. 
 But why made he thy heart of stone? 
 
 S. Helen Goonetillake. 
 
 KRAMAT 
 
 A LONG-DRAWN moan, much like a scream 
 
 At close; then hark! 
 The hum and hiss of unseen winged things 
 
 In forests dark. 
 
 Dull music, varied by the cry 
 
 Of nightingale 
 So called, her whistling shrieks with ghastly laugh 
 
 In sinking scale. 
 
 No fear smote Syed upon the way 
 
 For things like these; 
 His watch-dog following trembled as he heard 
 
 The rustling trees.
 
 Malacca 351 
 
 Out sprang, with eyes like burning lamps, 
 
 And seized the prey 
 A tiger, sparing Syed, whom nature loved 
 
 Nor would betray. 
 
 For he no bird or beast e'er vexed, 
 
 Nor did of old 
 Sleman,! God's prophet, better understand 
 
 What their speech told. 
 
 And ever the scornful song of that 
 
 Sad nightingale, 
 Which screams of broken lives, told him at last 
 
 Good must prevail, 
 
 For mockery was ofttimes the death 
 
 Of evil things. 
 Shaking from roof to base the House of Vain 
 
 Imaginings. 
 
 So now Seyd called; from jungle depths. 
 
 In his lord's name. 
 The tiger, bidden lay his booty down. 
 
 Submissive came.^ 
 
 MALACCA 
 
 " History is the realisation of the deeper idea." — Hegel. 
 
 City which calls up thoughts of Western lands, 
 Of feudal castles on a German steep. 
 
 And red-roofed villages on sandy coasts, 
 Not dreamless is thy sleep. 
 
 The thoughts of many men have passed away, 
 Who lived and died by thy deserted beach, 
 
 But faith and love appearing on the earth 
 Destruction cannot reach. 
 
 1 Soloman, called Sleman or Suleiman by the Malays. Mohammedan 
 legends represent him as " having heard secrets whenever he walked 
 in his garden." 
 
 ^This the Malays believe to have been an actual fact; an instance of 
 the special gift which is represented by one of the meanings of the word 
 Kramat, and which they suppose certain fairies to possess.
 
 352 The Joys of Jamaica 
 
 Long since there fell the empire centred here 
 In car-borne warriors from Hindustan; 
 
 Now of their pageants and their fights no trace 
 Remains upon the plain " plan." 
 
 But on the hill-tops stand from roofless walls/ 
 Memorials of a nation from the West, 
 
 Which came long since thy borders to subdue 
 And then to give them rest. 
 
 The vision of that nation haunteth thee 
 Carven in stone of thy cathedral wall, 
 
 The incarnation of the strongest thought, 
 " Peace and good-will to all." 
 
 R. Greentree. 
 
 THE WEST INDIES 
 
 In waters of purple and gold 
 
 Lie the islands beloved of the sun, 
 
 And he touches them one by one. 
 
 As the beads of a rosary told. 
 
 When the glow of the dawn has begun, 
 
 And when to Eternity's fold 
 
 Time gathers the day that is done. 
 
 No rosary! Isles of the West, 
 
 Isles Antillean agleam. 
 
 But a necklace strung out on the breast 
 
 Of the sea breathing low in a dream. 
 
 In the trance of a passionate rest, 
 
 A rainbow afloat in its stream. 
 
 THE JOYS OF JAMAICA 
 
 Empress of all the Spanish main, 
 And Queen of Antillean isles. 
 
 What rival may dispute thy reign? 
 What traveller resist thy smiles? 
 ' A Portuguese cathedral oq which is an inscription to Xavier.
 
 Songs of Kingston City 353 
 
 By rivers sway the fern and palm 
 
 In winding valleys richly set, 
 While muffled in majestic calm 
 
 The forests stand unravished yet. 
 
 Here soars the massive mountain height, 
 
 The torrent foams along the glen, 
 There sweep and fade in golden light 
 
 Wide palms with sustenance for men. 
 
 And over and around all these 
 
 The buoyant trade wind softly blows, 
 
 It bears the balm of southern seas, 
 Yet cool its bracing current flows. 
 
 Heaven palpitates alive with stars, 
 Or moonlight holds the earth in trance, 
 
 Our soul resents its prison bars. 
 Our heart yet hungers for romance. 
 
 H. S. BUNBURY. 
 
 SONGS OF KINGSTON CITY 
 
 THE MOTHERS OF THE CITY 
 
 What is the noise that shuffles 
 
 On the roads that lead to the town, 
 
 While the city slumbers deeply. 
 While the hours lie dumbly down? 
 
 When the gas-lamps talk together 
 As they sentry the empty street. 
 
 And the silence barely quivers 
 To the passing of dead men's feet. 
 
 Oh, who are the weary pilgrims 
 That caravan now on the way? 
 
 'Tis the burdened market women 
 With their hampered donkeys grey.
 
 354 Songs of Kingston City 
 
 Through the dim wan mists of the morning, 
 They come who have travelled far, 
 
 On the long white roads that glimmer 
 To the light of the Morning Star. 
 
 On their feet is the mud of the roadway. 
 Their frocks with the dust is soiled, 
 
 Big baskets wrinkle their foreheads. 
 From afar have their footsteps toiled. 
 
 They have dug for the yam and the yampie, 
 They have gravelled potato hills, 
 
 They have delved the red clay where the spider 
 His fangs with his venom fills. 
 
 And the hot noon sun has dazed them 
 As they wrought on the steep hill-side, 
 
 And marshalled their rows of scallion 
 Or scattered the red peas wide. 
 
 To their hoe-beat sprang the echoes 
 
 Where the dark woods round them swept; 
 
 And the blows of their wielded cutlass 
 Stirred the air where the ages slept. 
 
 The red fire spears have helped them 
 Drive the tangle from the earth, 
 
 As they nursed her in her labour 
 For the crop-time's coming birth. 
 
 They rose while the land lay sleeping 
 In the silvery moonlight drest. 
 
 And their shoulders bowed to the burden 
 As they tramped to the mountain crest; 
 
 As they trudged again to the valley. 
 As they toiled by the swampland's edge, 
 
 Where the frog to the lizard mutters 
 In the ways of a rank green sedge. 
 
 And they heard where the road was slipping 
 The rattle of landslides go.
 
 The North to the South 355 
 
 And the thud of the ripened mango 
 In the far dark fields below. 
 
 To cherish her son does a mother 
 
 Give the milk of her life-pulse born; 
 These come as the city mothers, 
 
 Mud-daubed in the ghost-grey mom. 
 
 To pour for the city hunger 
 
 The milk from the country's breast, 
 
 Like a mother that toils and labours 
 That her baby may feed and rest. 
 
 They come through the mist of morning, 
 With the black road mud on their feet. 
 
 Some trod where wild hill streams thunder. 
 And some where sea-surges beat. 
 
 Through the grey morn come the mothers 
 
 Of the city, travelled far. 
 By the long white roads that glimmer 
 
 To the light of the Morning Star. 
 
 T. Redcam. 
 
 THE NORTH TO THE SOUTH 
 
 When something leaves one's life — the heavy scent 
 Of southern flowers, weighted down by dew; 
 
 The sensuous sway of bending palms — the arch 
 Of noonday skies, one broad expanse of blue; 
 
 The simple joy of living, unperplexed 
 
 By life's rough battle in the world's mad glare; 
 
 The low, soft sound of mountain streams, instead 
 Of horns and fifes and noisy trumpets' blare — 
 
 Then comes the stronger, fiercer joy of work — 
 Hard fight and struggle 'gainst a powerful foe ; 
 
 The hail — the driving sleet — the piercing cold — 
 The winter's chilling ice and blinding snow.
 
 356 Killin' Nanny 
 
 The bitter tonic of the northern winds 
 
 Is kinder than the flowers' sweet perfume; 
 
 And gentler than the southern hght and warmth 
 Is all the cold, the darkness, and the gloom. 
 
 THE SOUTH TO THE NORTH 
 
 Ah, something subtly sweet has left one's life 
 When these encircling mountains fade from view, 
 And all the palm-lined shore seems strange and new 
 As outbound ship glides far upon the blue. 
 
 The deep, bewildering scent of Southern flowers. 
 The freshness of green palms that ever sway, 
 The dazzling blue of skies at height of day — 
 Something has gone, when these are gone away. 
 
 The song of mountain springs is rudely hushed 
 By martial tones more harsh than trumpets' blare; 
 A lingering fragrance of the flowers fair 
 Is crushed by the sharp, cruel Northern air. 
 
 Life seems a tract of moorland bleak and grey. 
 With no gleam of the South's rich red and gold; 
 Sharp, piercing winds the trembling limbs enfold. 
 And all is outer darkness, gloom, and cold. 
 
 " Tropica." 
 
 KILLIN' NANNY 
 
 Two little pickny is watchin', 
 While a goat is led to deat'; 
 
 Dey are little ones of two years. 
 An' know naught of badness yet. 
 
 De goat is bawlin' fe mussy,^ 
 Ajn' de children watch de sight 
 
 As de butcher re'ch ^ his sharp knife, 
 An' tab^ wid all his might. 
 Mercy " Reaches. " Stabs.
 
 Cudjoe Fresh from de Lecture 357 
 
 Dey see de red blood flowin'; 
 
 An' one chil' trimble an' hide 
 His face in de mudder's bosom, 
 
 While t'udder look on wide-eyed. 
 
 De tears is fallin' down hotly 
 From him on de mudder's knee; 
 
 De udder wid joy is starin', 
 An' clappin' his ban's wid glee. 
 
 When dey had forgotten Nanny, 
 Grown men I see dem again; 
 
 An' de forehead of de laugher 
 Was brand ^ wid de mark of Cain. 
 
 CUDJOE FRESH FROM DE LECTURE 
 
 'Top one minute, Cous' Jarge, an' sit do'n 'pon de grass, 
 An' mek a^ tell you 'bout de news I hear at las', 
 How de buccra te-day tek time an' begin teach 
 All of us dat was deh^ in a clear open speech. 
 
 You miss somet'ing fe true, but a wi' mek you know, 
 As much as how a can, how de business a go : 
 Him tell us 'bout we self, an' mek we fresh ^ again, 
 An' talk about de wuF from commencement to en'. 
 
 Me look 'pon me black 'kin, an' so me head grow big, 
 Aldough me heaby han' defti hab fe plug^ an' dig; 
 For ebery single man, no car' ^ about dem rank. 
 Him bring us ebery one an' put 'pon de same plank. 
 
 Say, parson do de same ? Yes, in a difJ'ren' way, 
 For parson tell us how de whole o' we are clay ; 
 An' lookin' close at t'ings, we hab to pray quite hard 
 Fe swaller wha' him say an' don't t'ink bad o' Gahd. 
 
 1 Branded. ^ Make I=let me. ^ There. 
 
 *Over: meaning, " He gave us a new view of our origin, and ex- 
 plained that we did not come from Adam and Eve, but by evolution." 
 '" Plough. * Care: no matter what their rank.
 
 35^ Cudjoe Fresh from de Lecture 
 
 But dis man tell us 'traight 'bout how de whole t'ing came, 
 An' show us widout doubt how Gahd was not fe blame; 
 How change cause eberyt'ing fe mix up 'pon de eart', 
 An' dat most hardship come t'rough accident o' birt'. 
 
 Him show us all a sort^ o' funny 'keleton, 
 Wid names I won't remember under dis ya sun; 
 Animals queer to deat',^ dem bone, teet', an' headskull. 
 All dem so dat did live in a de ole-time wul'. 
 
 No 'cos we get cuss mek fe we 'kin come so. 
 But fe all t'ings come 'quare, same so it was to go:^ 
 Seems our Ian''* must ha' been a bery low-do'n place, 
 Mek it tek such long time in tu'ning out a race. 
 
 Yes, from monkey we spring: I believe ebery wud; 
 It long time better dan f'go say we come from mud: 
 No need me keep back part, me hab not' in' fe gain; 
 It's ebery man dat born — de buccra mek it plain. 
 
 It really strange how some o' de Ian' dem advance; 
 Man power in some ways is nummo soso chance ; ^ 
 But suppose eberyt'ing could tu'n right upside down. 
 Den p'raps we'd be on top an' givin' some one houn'.^ 
 
 Yes, Cous' Jarge, slabery hot fe dem dat gone befo' : 
 We gettin' better times, for those days we no know; ' 
 But I t'ink it do good, tek we from Africa 
 An' Ian' us in a blessed place as dis a ya.^ 
 
 Talk 'bouten Africa, we would be deh till now, 
 Maybe same half-naked — all day dribe buccra cow, 
 An' tearin' t'rough de bush wid all de monkey dem, 
 Wile an' uncibilise',^ an' neber comin' tame. 
 
 * All sorts. * The queerest animals. 
 
 * It is not because vve were cursed (Gen. ix. 25) that our skin is dark; 
 but so that things mi^ht come square there had to be black and white. 
 
 * Africa. 
 
 ' No more than piure chance. 
 
 " Hound: equivalent to the English slang phrase " giving some one 
 beans." 
 
 'Do not know: have no experience of. 
 
 ' This here. * Wild and uncivilised.
 
 Cudjoe Fresh from de Lecture 359 
 
 I lef quite 'way from wha' we be'n deh talk about/ 
 Yet still a coundn' help — de wuds come to me mout'; 
 Just like how yeas' get strong an' sometimes fly de cark, 
 Same way me feelings grow, so I was boun' fe talk. 
 
 Yet both horse partly 2 runnin' in de selfsame gallop. 
 For it is nearly so de way de buccra pull up : 
 Him say, how de wul' stan', dat right will neber be, 
 But wrong will eber gwon ^ till dis wul' en' fe we. 
 
 Claude McKay. 
 
 ^ I have run right away from what we were talking about. 
 » Almost. 3 Qo on 
 
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