The Contrast
Fat lady, in your four-wheeled chair, Dolled up to beat the band, At me you arrogantly stare With gold lorgnette in hand. Oh how you differ from the dame So shabby, gaunt and grey,
Ghosts
I to a crumpled cabin came Upon a hillside high, And with me was a withered dame As weariful as I. “It used to be our home,” she said; “How well I remember well!
Premonition
‘Twas a year ago and the moon was bright (Oh, I remember so well, so well); I walked with my love in a sea of light, And the voice of my sweet was a
Lindy Lou
If the good King only knew, Lindy Lou, What a cherub child are you, It is true, He would step down from his throne, And would claim you for his own, Then whatever would
A Song Of Sixty-Five
Brave Thackeray has trolled of days when he was twenty-one, And bounded up five flights of stairs, a gallant garreteer; And yet again in mellow vein when youth was gaily run, Has dipped his
Poor Kid
Mumsie and Dad are raven dark And I am lily blonde. ”Tis strange,’ I once heard nurse remark, ‘You do not correspond.’ And yet they claim me as their own, Born of their flesh
My Job
I’ve got a little job on ‘and, the time is drawin’ nigh; At seven by the Captain’s watch I’m due to go and do it; I wants to ‘ave it nice and neat, and
Freedom's Fool
To hell with Government I say; I’m sick of all the piddling pack. I’d like to scram, get clean away, And never, nevermore come back. With heart of hope I long to go To
The Choice
Some inherit manly beauty, Some come into worldly wealth; Some have lofty sense of duty, Others boast exultant health. Though the pick may be confusing, Health, wealth, charm or character, If you had the
On The Wire
O God, take the sun from the sky! It’s burning me, scorching me up. God, can’t You hear my cry? Water! A poor, little cup! It’s laughing, the cursed sun! See how it swells
The Wood-Cutter
The sky is like an envelope, One of those blue official things; And, sealing it, to mock our hope, The moon, a silver wafer, clings. What shall we find when death gives leave To
The Black Dudeen
Humping it here in the dug-out, Sucking me black dudeen, I’d like to say in a general way, There’s nothing like Nickyteen; There’s nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, Be it pipes or snipes or
Pooch
Nurse, won’t you let him in? He’s barkin’ an’ scratchen’ the door, Makin’ so dreffel a din I jest can’t sleep any more; Out there in the dark an’ the cold, Hark to him
The Record
Fearing that she might go one day With some fine fellow of her choice, I called her from her childish play, And made a record of her voice. And now that she is truly
The Ghosts
Smith, great writer of stories, drank; found it immortalized his pen; Fused in his brain-pan, else a blank, heavens of glory now and then; Gave him the magical genius touch; God-given power to gouge