Sentimental Hangman
‘Tis hard to hang a husky lad When larks are in the sky; It hurts when daffydills are glad To wring a neck awry, When joy o’ Spring is in the sap And cheery
Simplicity
What I seek far yet seldom find Is large simplicity of mind In fellow men; For I have sprouted from the sod, Like Bobbie Burns, my earthly god, From plough to pen. So I
Room 5: The Concert Singer
I’m one of these haphazard chaps Who sit in cafes drinking; A most improper taste, perhaps, Yet pleasant, to my thinking. For, oh, I hate discord and strife; I’m sadly, weakly human; And I
Longevity
Said Brown: ‘I can’t afford to die For I have bought annuity, And every day of living I Have money coming in to me: While others toil to make their bread I make mine
To A Stuffed Shirt
On the tide you ride head high, Like a whale ‘mid little fishes; I should envy you as I Help my wife to wash the dishes. Yet frock-coat and stove-pipe hat Cannot hide your
The Sceptic
My Father Christmas passed away When I was barely seven. At twenty-one, alack-a-day, I lost my hope of heaven. Yet not in either lies the curse: The hell of it’s because I don’t know
Orphan School
Full fifty merry maids I heard One summer morn a-singing; And each was like a joyous bird With spring-clear not a-ringing. It was an old-time soldier song That held their happy voices: Oh how
Compensation Pete
He used to say: There ain’t a doubt Misfortune is a bitter pill, But if you only pry it out You’ll find there’s good in every ill. There’s comfort in the worst of woe,
Lowly Laureate
O Sacred Muse, my lyre excuse! – My verse is vagrant singing; Rhyme I invoke for simple folk Of penny-wise upbringing: For Grannies grey to paste away Within an album cover; For maids in
My Consolation
‘Nay; I don’t need a hearing aid’ I told Mama-in-law; ‘For if I had I’d be afraid Of your eternal jaw; Although at me you often shout, I’m undisturbed; To tell the truth I
The Undying
She was so wonderful I wondered If wedding me she had not blundered; She was so pure, so high above me, I marvelled how she came to love me: Or did she? Well, in
Successful Failure
I wonder if successful men Are always happy? And do they sing with gusto when Springtime is sappy? Although I am of snow-white hair And nighly mortal, Each time I sniff the April air
Miracles
Each time that I switch on the light A Miracle it seems to me That I should rediscover sight And banish dark so utterly. One moment I am bleakly blind, The next exultant life
The March Of The Dead
The cruel war was over oh, the triumph was so sweet! We watched the troops returning, through our tears; There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street, And you scarce could hear
Gentle Gaoler
Being a gaoler I’m supposed To be a hard-boiled guy; Yet never prison walls enclosed A kinder soul than I: Passing my charges precious pills To end their ills. And if in gentle sleep