Vain Venture
To have a business of my own With toil and tears, I wore my fingers to the bone For weary years. With stoic heart, for sordid gold In patient pain My life and liberty
Gypsy Jill
They’re hanging Bill at eight o’ clock, And millions will applaud. He killed, and so they have to kill, Such is the will of God. His brother Tom is on my bed To keep
Mud
Mud is Beauty in the making, Mud is melody awaking; Laughter, leafy whisperings, Butterflies with rainbow wings; Baby babble, lover’s sighs, Bobolink in lucent skies; Ardours of heroic blood All stem back to Matrix
The Mountain And The Lake
I know a mountain thrilling to the stars, Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow; Glimpsing the golden dawn o’er coral bars, Flaunting the vanisht sunset’s garnet glow; Proudly patrician, passionless, serene; Soaring in
Wistful
Oh how I’d be gay and glad If a little house I had, Snuggled in a shady lot, With behind a garden plot; Simple grub, old duds to wear, A book, a pipe, a
Fleurette
(The Wounded Canadian Speaks) My leg? It’s off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I’ve had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn. (I rather chuckle
The Sacrifices
Twin boys I bore, my joy, my care, My hope, my life they were to me; Their father, dashing, debonair, Fell fighting at Gallipoli. His daring gallantry, no doubt, They ‘herited in equal share:
The Younger Son
If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land, Where all except the flag is strange and new, There’s a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the
The Coward
‘Ave you seen Bill’s mug in the Noos to-day? ‘E’s gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say; Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away, If you ‘it ‘im a swipe on the jawr. ‘E’s
To The Man Of The High North
My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming I’ve drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream, Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming, Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam. I was the thrall of
Dark Truth
Birds have no consciousness of doom: Yon thrush that serenades me daily From scented snow of hawthorn bloom Would not trill out his glee so gaily, Could he foretell his songful breath Would sadly
No Lilies For Lisette
Said the Door: “She came in With no shadow of sin; Turned the key in the lock, Slipped out of her frock, The robe she liked best When for supper she dressed. Then a
Kittens
A ray of sun strayed softly round, For something to caress, Until a resting place it found Of joy and thankfulness; ‘Twas Minette, our Angora cat, With deep contented purr, Relaxed in rapture on
The Man Who Knew
The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be, And from his dream forthright a picture grew, A painting all the people thronged to see, And joyed therein till came the Man Who Knew, Saying:
Michael
“There’s something in your face, Michael, I’ve seen it all the day; There’s something quare that wasn’t there when first ye wint away. . . .” “It’s just the Army life, mother, the drill,