The Whistle Of Sandy McGraw
You may talk o’ your lutes and your dulcimers fine, Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a’, But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine The wee penny whistle o’
The Receptionist
France is the fairest land on earth, Lovely to heart’s desire, And twice a year I span its girth, Its beauty to admire. But when a pub I seek each night, To my profound
The Hearth-Stone
The leaves are sick and jaundiced, they Drift down the air; December’s sky is sodden grey, Dark with despair; A bleary dawn will light anon A world of care. My name is cut into
Detachment
As I go forth from fair to mart With racket ringing, Who would divine that in my heart Mad larks are singing. As I sweet sympathy express, Lest I should pain them, The money-mongers
Death And Life
‘Twas in the grave-yard’s gruesome gloom That May and I were mated; We sneaked inside and on a tomb Our love was consummated. It’s quite all right, no doubt we’ll wed, Our sin will
Grin
If you’re up against a bruiser and you’re getting knocked about Grin. If you’re feeling pretty groggy, and you’re licked beyond a doubt Grin. Don’t let him see you’re funking, let him know with
My Holiday
I love the cheery bustle Of children round the house, The tidy maids a-hustle, The chatter of my spouse; The laughter and the singing, The joy on every face: With frequent laughter ringing, O,
Amateur Poet
You see that sheaf of slender books Upon the topmost shelf, At which no browser ever looks, Because they’re by. . . myself; They’re neatly bound in navy blue, But no one ever heeds;
Cows
I love to watch my seven cows In meads of buttercups abrowse, With guilded knees; But even more I love to see Them chew the cud so tranquilly In twilight ease. Each is the
The Dreamer
The lone man gazed and gazed upon his gold, His sweat, his blood, the wage of weary days; But now how sweet, how doubly sweet to hold All gay and gleamy to the campfire
My Rival
If she met him or he met her, I knew that something must occur; For they were just like flint and steel To strike the spark of woe and weal; Or like two splinters
The Joy Of Little Things
It’s good the great green earth to roam, Where sights of awe the soul inspire; But oh, it’s best, the coming home, The crackle of one’s own hearth-fire! You’ve hob-nobbed with the solemn Past;
My Typewriter
I used to think a pot of ink Held magic in its fluid, And I would ply a pen when I Was hoary a a Druid; But as I scratch my silver thatch My
The Farmer's Daughter
The Rector met a little lass Who led a heifer by a rope. Said he: “Why don’t you go to Mass? Do you not want to please the Pope?” The village maiden made reply,
Lost
“Black is the sky, but the land is white (O the wind, the snow and the storm!) Father, where is our boy to-night? Pray to God he is safe and warm.” “Mother, mother, why