The Twins
There were two brothers, John and James, And when the town went up in flames, To save the house of James dashed John, Then turned, and lo! his own was gone. And when the
My Masters
Of Poetry I’ve been accused, But much more often I have not; Oh, I have been so much amused By those who’ve put me on the spot, And measured me by rules above Those
Beachcomber
When I have come with happy heart to sixty years and ten, I’ll buy a boat and sail away upon a summer sea; And in a little lonely isle that’s far and far from
The Call Of The Wild
Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, Black canyons where the rapids
My Son
I must not let my boy Dick down, Knight of the air. With wings of light he won renown Then crashed somewhere. To fly to France from London town I do not dare. Oh
Charity
The Princess was of ancient line, Of royal race was she; Like cameo her face was fine, With sad serentiy: Yet bent she toiled with dimming eye, Her rice and milk to buy. With
Playboy
I greet the challenge of the dawn With weary, bleary eyes; Into the sky so ashen wan I wait the sun to rise; Then in the morning’s holy hush, With heart of shame I
An Olive Fire
An olive fire’s a lovely thing; Somehow it makes me think of Spring As in my grate it over-spills With dancing flames like daffodils. They flirt and frolic, twist and twine, The brassy fire-irons
The Baldness Of Chewed-Ear
When Chewed-ear Jenkins got hitched up to Guinneyveer McGee, His flowin’ locks, ye recollect, wuz frivolous an’ free; But in old Hymen’s jack-pot, it’s a most amazin’ thing, Them flowin’ locks jest disappeared like
The Man From Athabaska
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that ’twas nothing but the thrumming Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree; And she thought that I was fooling when I said
The Three Tommies
That Barret, the painter of pictures, what feeling for color he had! And Fanning, the maker of music, such melodies mirthful and mad! And Harley, the writer of stories, so whimsical, tender and glad!
Prelude
They say that rhyme and rhythm are Outmoded now. I do not know, for I am far From high of brow. But if the twain you take away, Since basely bred, Proud Poetry, I
The Pencil Seller
A pencil, sir; a penny won’t you buy? I’m cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight; Don’t turn your back, sir; take one just to try; I haven’t made a single sale to-night.
I'm Scared Of It All
I’m scared of it all, God’s truth! so I am; It’s too big and brutal for me. My nerve’s on the raw and I don’t give a damn For all the “hoorah” that I
My Suicide
I’ve often wondered why Old chaps who choose to die In evil passes, Before themselves they slay, Invariably they Take off their glasses? As I strolled by the Castle cliff An oldish chap I