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Read Ebook: Poems — Volume 3 by Meredith George
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Ebook has 647 lines and 78728 words, and 13 pages
A hundred mares, all white! their manes 'ATKINS', 236
Yonder's the man with his life in his hand, THE VOYAGE OF THE 'OPHIR', 237
Men of our race, we send you one THE CRISIS, 239
Spirit of Russia, now has come OCTOBER 21, 1905, 241
The hundred years have passed, and he THE CENTENARY OF GARIBALDI, 243
We who have seen Italia in the throes, THE WILD ROSE, 245
High climbs June's wild rose, THE CALL, 247
Under what spell are we debased ON COMO, 250
A rainless darkness drew o'er the lake MILTON, 251
What splendour of imperial station man, IRELAND, 253
Fire in her ashes Ireland feels THE YEARS HAD WORN THEIR SEASONS' BELT, 255
The years had worn their seasons' belt, FRAGMENTS, 257
Open horizons round,
A wilding little stubble flower
From labours through the night, outworn,
This love of nature, that allures to take IL Y A CENT ANS, 259
That march of the funereal Past behold; YOUTH IN AGE, 261
Once I was part of the music I heard Epitaphs TO A FRIEND LOST, 265
When I remember, friend, whom lost I call, M. M., 265
Who call her Mother and who calls her Wife THE LADY C. M., 266
To them that knew her, there is vital flame ON THE TOMBSTONE OF JAMES CHRISTOPHER WILSON, 266
Thou our beloved and light of Earth hast crossed GORDON OF KHARTOUM, 266
Of men he would have raised to light he fell: J. C. M., 267
A fountain of our sweetest, quick to spring THE EMPEROR FREDERICK OF OUR TIME, 267
With Alfred and St. Louis he doth win ISLET THE DACHS, 267
Our Islet out of Helgoland, dismissed ON HEARING THE NEWS FROM VENICE, 268
Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak, HAWARDEN, 269
When comes the lighted day for men to read AT THE FUNERAL, 270
Her sacred body bear: the tenement ANGELA BURDETT-COUTTS, 270
Long with us, now she leaves us; she has rest THE YEAR'S SHEDDINGS, 270
The varied colours are a fitful heap:
A STAVE OF ROVING TIM
THE wind is East, the wind is West, Blows in and out of haven; The wind that blows is the wind that's best, And croak, my jolly raven! If here awhile we jigged and laughed, The like we will do yonder; For he's the man who masters a craft, And light as a lord can wander. So, foot the measure, Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
You live in rows of snug abodes, With gold, maybe, for counting; And mine's the beck of the rainy roads Against the sun a-mounting. I take the day as it behaves, Nor shiver when 'tis airy; But comes a breeze, all you are on waves, Sick chickens o' Mother Carey! So, now for next, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer, To make a man consider. If you were up with the auctioneer, I'd be a handsome bidder. But wedlock clips the rover's wing; She tricks him fly to spider; And when we get to fights in the Ring, It's trumps when you play outsider. So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
Along my winding way I know A shady dell that's winking; The very corner for Self and Co To do a world of thinking. And shall I this? and shall I that? Till Nature answers, ne'ther! Strike match and light your pipe in your hat, Rejoicing in sound shoe-leather! So lead along, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
A cunning hand 'll hand you bread, With freedom for your capers. I'm not so sure of a cunning head; It steers to pits or vapours. But as for Life, we'll bear in sight The lesson Nature teaches; Regard it in a sailoring light, And treat it like thirsty leeches. So, fly your jib, cries Roving Tim, And top your boom, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
She'll take, to please her dame and dad, The shopman nicely shaven. She'll learn to think o' the marching lad When perchers show they're craven. You say the shopman piles a heap, While I perhaps am fasting; And bless your wits, it haunts him in sleep, His tin-kettle chance of lasting! So hail the road, cries Roving Tim, And hail the rain, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
He's half a wife, yon pecker bill; A book and likewise preacher. With any soul, in a game of skill, He'll prove your over-reacher. The reason is, his brains are bent On doing things right single. You'd wish for them when pitching your tent At night in a whirly dingle! So, off we go, cries Roving Tim, And on we go, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
Lord, no, man's lot is not for bliss; To call it woe is blindness: It'll here a kick, and it's there a kiss, And here and there a kindness. He starts a hare and calls her joy; He runs her down to sorrow: The dogs within him bother the boy, But 'tis a new day to-morrow. So, I at helm, cries Roving Tim, And you at bow, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
JUMP-TO-GLORY JANE
A REVELATION came on Jane, The widow of a labouring swain: And first her body trembled sharp, Then all the woman was a harp With winds along the strings; she heard, Though there was neither tone nor word.
For past our hearing was the air, Beyond our speaking what it bare, And she within herself had sight Of heaven at work to cleanse outright, To make of her a mansion fit For angel hosts inside to sit.
They entered, and forthwith entranced, Her body braced, her members danced; Surprisingly the woman leapt; And countenance composed she kept: As gossip neighbours in the lane Declared, who saw and pitied Jane.
These knew she had been reading books, The which was witnessed by her looks Of late: she had a mania For mad folk in America, And said for sure they led the way, But meat and beer were meant to stay.
That she had visited a fair, Had seen a gauzy lady there, Alive with tricks on legs alone, As good as wings, was also known: And longwhiles in a sullen mood, Before her jumping, Jane would brood.
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