Genre Poetry. Page - 2

yours:
In the day of Armageddon, at the last great fight of all, That Our House stand together and the pillars do not fall. Draw now the three-fold knot firm on the nine-fold bands, And the Law that ye make shall be law after the rule of your lands. This for the waxen Heath, and that for the Wattle-bloom, This for the Maple-leaf, and that for the southern Broom. The Law that ye make shall be law and I do not press my will, Because ye are Sons of The Blood and call me Mother still. Now must ye speak to your kinsmen and they must speak to you, After the use of the English, in straight-flung words and few. Go to your work and be strong, halting not in your ways, Baulking the end half-won for an instant dole of praise. Stand to your work and be wise--certain of sword and pen, Who are neither children nor Gods, but men in a world of men!

THE FIRST CHANTEY.

Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her;
Haling her dumb from the camp, held her and bound her.
Hot rose her

ould never please a high-born child like you.

THE CHILD.

Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn
Brightens above while you blow up the fire;
And evening finds you spreading the white cloth.
The young may lie in bed and dream and hope,
But you work on because your heart is old.

BRIDGET BRUIN.

The young are idle.

THE CHILD.

Old father, you are wise,
And all the years have gathered in your heart
To whisper of the wonders that are gone.
The young must sigh through many a dream and hope,
But you are wise because your heart is old.

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

O, who would think to find so young a child
Loving old age and wisdom.

[BRIDGET gives her more bread and honey.

THE CHILD.

No more, mother.

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

What a small bite; The milk is ready now;
What a small sip!

THE CHILD.

eave the farm! Rose. }

Rose. If he leaves it, he dies.

Edmunds. This base act, proud man, you shall rue.

Young Benson. Turn him from the farm! From his home will you cast, The old man who has tilled it for years? Ev'ry tree, ev'ry flower, is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears!

Squire. Yes, yes, leave the farm! From his home I will cast The old man who has tilled it for years; Though each tree and flower is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears.

Chorus.

He has turned from his farm! From his home he has cast The old man who has tilled it for years; Though each tree and flower is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears.

QUARTET

Squire. Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own Through all changes Fortune may make; The base charge of falsehood I never have known; This promise I never will break.

Rose and } He

ng his name on the fête day of his patron Saint Miguel, which some biographers have confounded with that of his birthday.

We may be forgiven for a few words about Alcala de Henares, since, had it only produced so rare a man as was Cervantes, it would have had sufficient distinction; but it was a town of an eventful historical record. It was destroyed about the year 1000, and rebuilt and possessed by the Moors, was afterwards conquered by Bernardo, Archbishop of Toledo. Three hundred years later it was the favorite retreat of Ximenes, then Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, who returned to it, after his splendid conquests, laden with gold and silver spoil taken from the mosques of Oran, and with a far richer treasure of precious Arabian manuscripts, intended for such a university as had long been his ambition to create, and the corner-stone of which he laid with his own hands in 1500. There was a very solemn ceremonial at the founding of this famous university, and a hiding away of coins and inscripti

op yourself, young chap,

you've got to pay the price,
There are many sorts of visions, but none

of 'em is nice."

They found that day at Leonards Lee and

ran to Shipley Wood,
'Ell-for-leather all the way, with scent

and weather good.
Never a check to 'Orton Beck and on

across the Weald,
And all the way the Sussex clay was weedin'

out the field.

There's not a man among them could

remember such a run,
Straight as a rule to Bramber Pool and on

by Annington,
They followed still past Breeding 'ill

and on by Steyning Town,
Until they'd cleared the 'edges and were

out upon the Down.

Full thirty mile from Plimmers Style,

without a check or fault,
Full thirty mile the 'ounds 'ad run and

never called a 'alt.
One by one the Field was done until at

Finden Down,
There was no one with the 'untsman save

young Jeremiah Brown.

And then the 'untsman '_e_ was beat.

plinters. Antiquarians differrespecting the intent and meaning of this ceremony, which has beenconstrued and interpreted in many different ways. The strong probability isthat it was done "for luck;" and yet Lord Bateman should have been superiorto the prejudices of the vulgar.]

[Footnote 9:

If my own Sophia.

So called doubtless from the mosque of St. Sophia, at Constantinople; herfather having professed the Mahomedan religion.]

[Footnote 10:

_Then up and spoke this young bride's mother,
Who never vos heerd to speak so free._

This is an exquisite touch of nature, which most married men, whether ofnoble or plebeian blood, will quickly recognise. During the whole of herdaughter's courtship, the good old lady had scarcely spoken, save byexpressive smiles and looks of approval. But now that her object is gained,and her daughter fast married (as she thinks), she suddenly assumes quite anew tone, "and never was heerd to speak so free." It would be diff

>On Kiley's Run

The roving breezes come and go

Frying Pan's Theology

Scene: On Monaro.

The Two Devines

It was shearing-time at the Myall Lake,

In the Droving Days

`Only a pound,' said the auctioneer,

Lost

`He ought to be home,' said the old man,
`without there's something amiss.

Over the Range

Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed,

Only a Jockey

Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light,

How M'Ginnis Went Missing

Let us cease our idle chatter,

A Voice from the Town

I thought, in the days of the droving,

A Bunch of Roses

Roses ruddy and roses white,

Black Swans

As I lie at rest on a patch of clover

The All Right 'Un

He came from `further out',

The Boss of the `Admiral Lynch'

Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day

A Bushman's Song

I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand,

How Gilbert Died

There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,

The Flying Gang

I served my time, in the days gone by,

Shearing at Castlereagh

The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot,

The Wind's Message

There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark,

Johnson's Antidote

Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp,

Ambition and Art

I am the maid of the lustrous eyes

The Daylight is Dying

The daylight is dying

In Defence of the Bush

So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went,

Last Week

Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run,

Those Names

The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong,

A Bush Christening

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,

How the Favourite Beat Us

`Aye,' said the boozer, `I tell you it's true, sir,

The Great Calamity

MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst

Come-by-

th his mother's death all that had vanished. His tragedyof "Cromwell" broke lances upon Royalists and upholders of the stillreigning style of tragedy. The second collection of "Odes" preluding it,showed the spirit of the son of Napoleon's general, rather than of theBourbonist field-marshal. On the occasion, too, of the Duke of Tarentobeing announced at the Austrian Ambassador's ball, February, 1827, asplain "Marshal Macdonald," Victor became the mouthpiece of indignantBonapartists in his "Ode to the Napoleon Column" in the Place Vendôme.

His "Orientales," though written in a Parisian suburb by one who had nottravelled, appealed for Grecian liberty, and depicted sultans and pashasas tyrants, many a line being deemed applicable to personages nearer theSeine than Stamboul.

"Cromwell" was not actable, and "Amy Robsart," in collaboration with hisbrother-in-law, Foucher, miserably failed, notwithstanding a finale"superior to Scott's 'Kenilworth.'" In one twelvemonth, there was thisfailu

l together
To the grey goose-feather
And the land where the grey goose flew.

What of the mark?

Ah, seek it not in England,
A bold mark, our old mark

Is waiting over-sea.

When the strings harp in chorus,
And the lion flag is o'er us,
It is there that our mark will be.

What of the men?

The men were bred in England:
The bowmen--the yeomen,

The lads of dale and fell.

Here's to you--and to you!
To the hearts that are true
And the land where the true hearts dwell.

CREMONA

[The French Army, including a part of the Irish Brigade, underMarshal Villeroy, held the fortified town of Cremona during thewinter of 1702. Prince Eugene, with the Imperial Army, surprised itone morning, and, owing to the treachery of a priest, occupied thewhole city before the alarm was given. Villeroy was captured,together with many of the French garrison. The Irish, however,consisting of the regime

surely, afford one of the obvious conditions for theimpulse to art. The hand-clapping and thigh-smiting of primitive savagesin a state of crowd-excitement, the song-and-dance before admiringspectators, the chorus of primitive ballads,--the crowd repeating andaltering the refrains,--the rhythmic song of laboring men and of women attheir weaving, sailors' "chanties," the celebration of funeral rites,religious processional and pageant, are all expressions of communalfeeling, and it is this communal feeling--"the sense of joy in widestcommonalty spread"--which has inspired, in Greece and Italy, some of thegreatest artistic epochs. It is true that as civilization has proceeded,this communal emotion has often seemed to fade away and leave us in thepresence of the individual artist only. We see Keats sitting at his gardentable writing the "Ode to Autumn," the lonely Shelley in the Cascine atFlorence composing the "West Wind," Wordsworth pacing the narrow walkbehind Dove Cottage and mumbling verses, Bee