[153]ONLY A KISS.

[151][Illustration: Two men standing at a bar]A BLOKE FROM MULLINGAR

A BLOKE FROM MULLINGAR

[152]“Come, sink another pot to her!A wizened soul and whiteWould falter in its tracks by day,And in its core by night.For I, too, twenty years ago,Beneath a luckless star,Left, in a rage,Life’s heritageBehind at Mullingar!”“Oh, yes,” he chortled with a sneer,“I know, I know your kindOf out-back bloke who babbles ofThe girl he leftbehind—Her face was quite a beauty show,Her voice like a guitar.I guess,” he grinned,“The kind of windBlew you from Mullingar!“For city men, like me, may readThe lying lines between,Of blokes who bruise with hob-nailed feetLove’s field ofevergreen—The car whereinyourgoddess drivesMay be Aspasia’s car!”I hit him solid, fair and square,And left the wastrel lyingthere—That bloke from Mullingar.[153]ONLY A KISS.“I shan’t,” cried the maiden, “I shan’t!”With a dear little petulant cry;But the Moon, the old Moon, looked aslant,With a comical twist in her eye;And the mulga bush, lingering near,Caught up the defiant refrain,And “I shan’t! Oh, I shan’t!”In a musical chant,Was re-echoed again and again.“But Lucretia, my dearest, you will!”Our Superbus persisted—and soonHis soft accents came back from the hill,In the mellowing light of the moon;And the salmon-gums, clustering round,Sent the melody dancing along,And “You will! Oh, you will!”Was repeated, untilThey were all out of breath with their song.[154]But the maiden was adamant still,Though her lips were an edible red;And when Tarquin insisted, “You will!”“Oh, I shan’t! you deceiver!” she said.And the mulga and salmon-gums all,In this star-gazing argument caught,Sang, “You will!” “Oh, I shan’t!”In a soul-wreckingchant—But they thought in their hearts that she ought.[Decoration: Mining with a windsail][155]A BENDER AND SOME OF THE MOODSTHAT LEAD UP TO IT.Whendays are long and nights are dull,And life seems deathly still,And wretched insects buzz and buzzAgainst the window sill,One balances the force of “Won’t”Against the force of Will.I live upon the outer edge,And on the desert’s rim,And sometimes query, in a toneQuite humourless and grim,Is life, indeed, a mere burlesque?Some Potent Joker’s whim?I give the Desert stare for stare,We never fraternise;For me the siren has no voice,For her I have no eyes,And whipcord couldn’t link us twainIn peaceful marriage ties.She’s clothed in desolation’s garb,And visaged like the Sphinx;Too close communion oft begetsThose tortured mental kinks[156]That populate the upper endOf men who mix their drinks.She brings no help to sling a rhymeThat sniggers as itgoes ...Sometimes a thought comes limping inWith sand between its toes,A well-developed polypusSomewhere within its nose.But when its wares are spread uponThe operating sheetI mostly find them shadow hash,With very little meat,And so I shoot them out the doorTo give the dog a treat.There’s something in the very airOf torture, finely spun;The weight of care that bears me downWeighs mighty near a ton;The breakfast steak tastes like a brick,The spuds are underdone.The whole world’s badly out of joint,And shaky at the knees;And that old trouble with my backIt hints of Bright’s disease,And barley-water in a ward,And thumping doctors’ fees.[157]The touch of ’flu I caught last monthGrows daily worse and worse:’Tis sure my plan to keep afloatTill time and tide reverse,Is, Take a load of beer aboard,And jettison my purse!For one must never count the costWhen health is in the scalesAnd dull-eyed devils roost uponOne’s mental boundary rails,Nor bend an over-fearful earTo timid travellers’ tales.The same old wild and woolly whirlAlong the same old track,Outpacing sundry ills I have,To garner those I lack!—And so, I slither down to hell(But have to hoof it back).Then Reason riots wild awhile,With bells upon her cap,Until the last resource is spedOf coin, or kid, or strap;And then—I come back smiling, aRejuvenated chap![158]WILD CATS AND HOURIS.Myworthy friend, if you’d list to me,I’d teach you the way of a millionaire:Advice costs nothing; the class is free;And the road is smooth and the game is fairWhere dame Fortune smilesWith a woman’s wiles,And a golden comb in the jade’s back hair.Pray listen to me as you love your life;The old world trips to the Oof-bird’s song:’Tis poverty cuts like a butcher’s knife,And the stabs of the butcher ranklelong—Say are you, at most,Like a chap on toast,Held over the fire on the toaster’s prong?The prizes are not for the swift alone:There’s small demand on your brawn or brain:Just a cast-steel chiv, and a hunk of stone,And a thirst that can cut and comeagain—A trifle of salt,A barrel of malt,And four good stout pegs in a mulga plain.[159]My worldly friend! if you’d list to me,You’d cease to worry of duns and bills,And practice the one philanthropyThat works the ranch that your egofills—For the mugs awaitAt your outer gate,And the world is crying for gilded pills.’Tis thus the prizes are lost or won,And thus the guerdon is bought or sold;For the game is fair when the coins are spun,And the “heads” show up in the aureatemould—And where is the sin,When the flats chip in,In flying a “nob” for their good red gold?Well, that is the lore that I wish to teach,And such is the way that I want to show,For Daphne lies on the sanded beach’Way down by the ocean at Cottesloe,With a barrel of “fat”And a tall silk hat,And a tip-top time where the houris grow.[160][Illustration: Man outside bar]THE LAST SPRAT.I’ve nursed it all a sultry summer nightThis buffer ’twixt a rocky shore and me:I elbow through the crowd upon my rightOf solvency.Life still holds some potentialities!I feel myself a unit amongst men!But know, should thirst prevail, there wilts and diesA citizen.[161]The clink of glasses floats upon theair—Thirst’s fingers gripe me round the neck andchoke—One beerward step: and then a voice, “Beware!Dead broke! Dead broke!”Shallows to windward, breakers on the lee,I weigh and weigh the question, cons and pros,Till (wracked by indecision’s pangs) I seeThe last pub close.[Decoration: Horse-powered mining][162]SAY, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF IT NOW?Ye comrades in shicker and cobbers in sin,Ye wrecks from the ranks of life’s crew,Who’ve tickled each barmaid under the chinAnd frivolled with nymphs in the Rue;Who’ve painted the town a magnificent red(All impressionist artists, I trow),Look here, in the light of the aftermath shed,Say, what do you think of it now?Oh, you’ve had a gay and a festive debauchIn regions where sanity reels,With Bacchus, wine-laden, ahead with his torch,And Nemesis close at your heels.And little you recked, as the glamour of wineSmoothed the lines of Life’s puckeringbrow—But own up and tell me, old cobbers of mine,Say, what do you think of it now?You’ve made the pace willing in numberless bars,You have sung, and recited, and yapped;You have slept a drunk’s sleep ’neath the pitying stars,You have squandered and borrowed andstrapped—[163]You have struck every note, the sublime to the lewd,But, alas, from Despondency’s slough,May I ask in a friendly and brotherly mood,Say, what do you think of it now?You have played the pied piper and danced the fool’s dance’Mid the smiles of well-ballasted men(By-and-by, when the devil is better perchanceYou will cut the same caper again.)But now, as you bare your scant locks to the blast,And re-register vow upon vow,May I ask, as a brother—the month that ispast—Say, what do you think of it now?[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]

[152]“Come, sink another pot to her!

A wizened soul and white

Would falter in its tracks by day,

And in its core by night.

For I, too, twenty years ago,

Beneath a luckless star,

Left, in a rage,

Life’s heritage

Behind at Mullingar!”

“Oh, yes,” he chortled with a sneer,“I know, I know your kindOf out-back bloke who babbles ofThe girl he leftbehind—Her face was quite a beauty show,Her voice like a guitar.I guess,” he grinned,“The kind of windBlew you from Mullingar!

“Oh, yes,” he chortled with a sneer,

“I know, I know your kind

Of out-back bloke who babbles of

The girl he leftbehind—

Her face was quite a beauty show,

Her voice like a guitar.

I guess,” he grinned,

“The kind of wind

Blew you from Mullingar!

“For city men, like me, may readThe lying lines between,Of blokes who bruise with hob-nailed feetLove’s field ofevergreen—The car whereinyourgoddess drivesMay be Aspasia’s car!”I hit him solid, fair and square,And left the wastrel lyingthere—That bloke from Mullingar.

“For city men, like me, may read

The lying lines between,

Of blokes who bruise with hob-nailed feet

Love’s field ofevergreen—

The car whereinyourgoddess drives

May be Aspasia’s car!”

I hit him solid, fair and square,

And left the wastrel lyingthere—

That bloke from Mullingar.

“I shan’t,” cried the maiden, “I shan’t!”With a dear little petulant cry;But the Moon, the old Moon, looked aslant,With a comical twist in her eye;And the mulga bush, lingering near,Caught up the defiant refrain,And “I shan’t! Oh, I shan’t!”In a musical chant,Was re-echoed again and again.“But Lucretia, my dearest, you will!”Our Superbus persisted—and soonHis soft accents came back from the hill,In the mellowing light of the moon;And the salmon-gums, clustering round,Sent the melody dancing along,And “You will! Oh, you will!”Was repeated, untilThey were all out of breath with their song.[154]But the maiden was adamant still,Though her lips were an edible red;And when Tarquin insisted, “You will!”“Oh, I shan’t! you deceiver!” she said.And the mulga and salmon-gums all,In this star-gazing argument caught,Sang, “You will!” “Oh, I shan’t!”In a soul-wreckingchant—But they thought in their hearts that she ought.

“I shan’t,” cried the maiden, “I shan’t!”

With a dear little petulant cry;

But the Moon, the old Moon, looked aslant,

With a comical twist in her eye;

And the mulga bush, lingering near,

Caught up the defiant refrain,

And “I shan’t! Oh, I shan’t!”

In a musical chant,

Was re-echoed again and again.

“But Lucretia, my dearest, you will!”Our Superbus persisted—and soonHis soft accents came back from the hill,In the mellowing light of the moon;And the salmon-gums, clustering round,Sent the melody dancing along,And “You will! Oh, you will!”Was repeated, untilThey were all out of breath with their song.

“But Lucretia, my dearest, you will!”

Our Superbus persisted—and soon

His soft accents came back from the hill,

In the mellowing light of the moon;

And the salmon-gums, clustering round,

Sent the melody dancing along,

And “You will! Oh, you will!”

Was repeated, until

They were all out of breath with their song.

[154]But the maiden was adamant still,Though her lips were an edible red;And when Tarquin insisted, “You will!”“Oh, I shan’t! you deceiver!” she said.And the mulga and salmon-gums all,In this star-gazing argument caught,Sang, “You will!” “Oh, I shan’t!”In a soul-wreckingchant—But they thought in their hearts that she ought.

[154]But the maiden was adamant still,

Though her lips were an edible red;

And when Tarquin insisted, “You will!”

“Oh, I shan’t! you deceiver!” she said.

And the mulga and salmon-gums all,

In this star-gazing argument caught,

Sang, “You will!” “Oh, I shan’t!”

In a soul-wreckingchant—

But they thought in their hearts that she ought.

[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]

Whendays are long and nights are dull,And life seems deathly still,And wretched insects buzz and buzzAgainst the window sill,One balances the force of “Won’t”Against the force of Will.I live upon the outer edge,And on the desert’s rim,And sometimes query, in a toneQuite humourless and grim,Is life, indeed, a mere burlesque?Some Potent Joker’s whim?I give the Desert stare for stare,We never fraternise;For me the siren has no voice,For her I have no eyes,And whipcord couldn’t link us twainIn peaceful marriage ties.She’s clothed in desolation’s garb,And visaged like the Sphinx;Too close communion oft begetsThose tortured mental kinks[156]That populate the upper endOf men who mix their drinks.She brings no help to sling a rhymeThat sniggers as itgoes ...Sometimes a thought comes limping inWith sand between its toes,A well-developed polypusSomewhere within its nose.But when its wares are spread uponThe operating sheetI mostly find them shadow hash,With very little meat,And so I shoot them out the doorTo give the dog a treat.There’s something in the very airOf torture, finely spun;The weight of care that bears me downWeighs mighty near a ton;The breakfast steak tastes like a brick,The spuds are underdone.The whole world’s badly out of joint,And shaky at the knees;And that old trouble with my backIt hints of Bright’s disease,And barley-water in a ward,And thumping doctors’ fees.[157]The touch of ’flu I caught last monthGrows daily worse and worse:’Tis sure my plan to keep afloatTill time and tide reverse,Is, Take a load of beer aboard,And jettison my purse!For one must never count the costWhen health is in the scalesAnd dull-eyed devils roost uponOne’s mental boundary rails,Nor bend an over-fearful earTo timid travellers’ tales.The same old wild and woolly whirlAlong the same old track,Outpacing sundry ills I have,To garner those I lack!—And so, I slither down to hell(But have to hoof it back).Then Reason riots wild awhile,With bells upon her cap,Until the last resource is spedOf coin, or kid, or strap;And then—I come back smiling, aRejuvenated chap!

Whendays are long and nights are dull,And life seems deathly still,And wretched insects buzz and buzzAgainst the window sill,One balances the force of “Won’t”Against the force of Will.

Whendays are long and nights are dull,

And life seems deathly still,

And wretched insects buzz and buzz

Against the window sill,

One balances the force of “Won’t”

Against the force of Will.

I live upon the outer edge,And on the desert’s rim,And sometimes query, in a toneQuite humourless and grim,Is life, indeed, a mere burlesque?Some Potent Joker’s whim?

I live upon the outer edge,

And on the desert’s rim,

And sometimes query, in a tone

Quite humourless and grim,

Is life, indeed, a mere burlesque?

Some Potent Joker’s whim?

I give the Desert stare for stare,We never fraternise;For me the siren has no voice,For her I have no eyes,And whipcord couldn’t link us twainIn peaceful marriage ties.

I give the Desert stare for stare,

We never fraternise;

For me the siren has no voice,

For her I have no eyes,

And whipcord couldn’t link us twain

In peaceful marriage ties.

She’s clothed in desolation’s garb,And visaged like the Sphinx;Too close communion oft begetsThose tortured mental kinks[156]That populate the upper endOf men who mix their drinks.

She’s clothed in desolation’s garb,

And visaged like the Sphinx;

Too close communion oft begets

Those tortured mental kinks

[156]That populate the upper end

Of men who mix their drinks.

She brings no help to sling a rhymeThat sniggers as itgoes ...Sometimes a thought comes limping inWith sand between its toes,A well-developed polypusSomewhere within its nose.

She brings no help to sling a rhyme

That sniggers as itgoes ...

Sometimes a thought comes limping in

With sand between its toes,

A well-developed polypus

Somewhere within its nose.

But when its wares are spread uponThe operating sheetI mostly find them shadow hash,With very little meat,And so I shoot them out the doorTo give the dog a treat.

But when its wares are spread upon

The operating sheet

I mostly find them shadow hash,

With very little meat,

And so I shoot them out the door

To give the dog a treat.

There’s something in the very airOf torture, finely spun;The weight of care that bears me downWeighs mighty near a ton;The breakfast steak tastes like a brick,The spuds are underdone.

There’s something in the very air

Of torture, finely spun;

The weight of care that bears me down

Weighs mighty near a ton;

The breakfast steak tastes like a brick,

The spuds are underdone.

The whole world’s badly out of joint,And shaky at the knees;And that old trouble with my backIt hints of Bright’s disease,And barley-water in a ward,And thumping doctors’ fees.

The whole world’s badly out of joint,

And shaky at the knees;

And that old trouble with my back

It hints of Bright’s disease,

And barley-water in a ward,

And thumping doctors’ fees.

[157]The touch of ’flu I caught last monthGrows daily worse and worse:’Tis sure my plan to keep afloatTill time and tide reverse,Is, Take a load of beer aboard,And jettison my purse!

[157]The touch of ’flu I caught last month

Grows daily worse and worse:

’Tis sure my plan to keep afloat

Till time and tide reverse,

Is, Take a load of beer aboard,

And jettison my purse!

For one must never count the costWhen health is in the scalesAnd dull-eyed devils roost uponOne’s mental boundary rails,Nor bend an over-fearful earTo timid travellers’ tales.

For one must never count the cost

When health is in the scales

And dull-eyed devils roost upon

One’s mental boundary rails,

Nor bend an over-fearful ear

To timid travellers’ tales.

The same old wild and woolly whirlAlong the same old track,Outpacing sundry ills I have,To garner those I lack!—And so, I slither down to hell(But have to hoof it back).

The same old wild and woolly whirl

Along the same old track,

Outpacing sundry ills I have,

To garner those I lack!

—And so, I slither down to hell

(But have to hoof it back).

Then Reason riots wild awhile,With bells upon her cap,Until the last resource is spedOf coin, or kid, or strap;And then—I come back smiling, aRejuvenated chap!

Then Reason riots wild awhile,

With bells upon her cap,

Until the last resource is sped

Of coin, or kid, or strap;

And then—I come back smiling, a

Rejuvenated chap!

Myworthy friend, if you’d list to me,I’d teach you the way of a millionaire:Advice costs nothing; the class is free;And the road is smooth and the game is fairWhere dame Fortune smilesWith a woman’s wiles,And a golden comb in the jade’s back hair.Pray listen to me as you love your life;The old world trips to the Oof-bird’s song:’Tis poverty cuts like a butcher’s knife,And the stabs of the butcher ranklelong—Say are you, at most,Like a chap on toast,Held over the fire on the toaster’s prong?The prizes are not for the swift alone:There’s small demand on your brawn or brain:Just a cast-steel chiv, and a hunk of stone,And a thirst that can cut and comeagain—A trifle of salt,A barrel of malt,And four good stout pegs in a mulga plain.[159]My worldly friend! if you’d list to me,You’d cease to worry of duns and bills,And practice the one philanthropyThat works the ranch that your egofills—For the mugs awaitAt your outer gate,And the world is crying for gilded pills.’Tis thus the prizes are lost or won,And thus the guerdon is bought or sold;For the game is fair when the coins are spun,And the “heads” show up in the aureatemould—And where is the sin,When the flats chip in,In flying a “nob” for their good red gold?Well, that is the lore that I wish to teach,And such is the way that I want to show,For Daphne lies on the sanded beach’Way down by the ocean at Cottesloe,With a barrel of “fat”And a tall silk hat,And a tip-top time where the houris grow.

Myworthy friend, if you’d list to me,

I’d teach you the way of a millionaire:

Advice costs nothing; the class is free;

And the road is smooth and the game is fair

Where dame Fortune smiles

With a woman’s wiles,

And a golden comb in the jade’s back hair.

Pray listen to me as you love your life;The old world trips to the Oof-bird’s song:’Tis poverty cuts like a butcher’s knife,And the stabs of the butcher ranklelong—Say are you, at most,Like a chap on toast,Held over the fire on the toaster’s prong?

Pray listen to me as you love your life;

The old world trips to the Oof-bird’s song:

’Tis poverty cuts like a butcher’s knife,

And the stabs of the butcher ranklelong—

Say are you, at most,

Like a chap on toast,

Held over the fire on the toaster’s prong?

The prizes are not for the swift alone:There’s small demand on your brawn or brain:Just a cast-steel chiv, and a hunk of stone,And a thirst that can cut and comeagain—A trifle of salt,A barrel of malt,And four good stout pegs in a mulga plain.

The prizes are not for the swift alone:

There’s small demand on your brawn or brain:

Just a cast-steel chiv, and a hunk of stone,

And a thirst that can cut and comeagain—

A trifle of salt,

A barrel of malt,

And four good stout pegs in a mulga plain.

[159]My worldly friend! if you’d list to me,You’d cease to worry of duns and bills,And practice the one philanthropyThat works the ranch that your egofills—For the mugs awaitAt your outer gate,And the world is crying for gilded pills.

[159]My worldly friend! if you’d list to me,

You’d cease to worry of duns and bills,

And practice the one philanthropy

That works the ranch that your egofills—

For the mugs await

At your outer gate,

And the world is crying for gilded pills.

’Tis thus the prizes are lost or won,And thus the guerdon is bought or sold;For the game is fair when the coins are spun,And the “heads” show up in the aureatemould—And where is the sin,When the flats chip in,In flying a “nob” for their good red gold?

’Tis thus the prizes are lost or won,

And thus the guerdon is bought or sold;

For the game is fair when the coins are spun,

And the “heads” show up in the aureatemould—

And where is the sin,

When the flats chip in,

In flying a “nob” for their good red gold?

Well, that is the lore that I wish to teach,And such is the way that I want to show,For Daphne lies on the sanded beach’Way down by the ocean at Cottesloe,With a barrel of “fat”And a tall silk hat,And a tip-top time where the houris grow.

Well, that is the lore that I wish to teach,

And such is the way that I want to show,

For Daphne lies on the sanded beach

’Way down by the ocean at Cottesloe,

With a barrel of “fat”

And a tall silk hat,

And a tip-top time where the houris grow.

I’ve nursed it all a sultry summer nightThis buffer ’twixt a rocky shore and me:I elbow through the crowd upon my rightOf solvency.Life still holds some potentialities!I feel myself a unit amongst men!But know, should thirst prevail, there wilts and diesA citizen.[161]The clink of glasses floats upon theair—Thirst’s fingers gripe me round the neck andchoke—One beerward step: and then a voice, “Beware!Dead broke! Dead broke!”Shallows to windward, breakers on the lee,I weigh and weigh the question, cons and pros,Till (wracked by indecision’s pangs) I seeThe last pub close.

I’ve nursed it all a sultry summer nightThis buffer ’twixt a rocky shore and me:I elbow through the crowd upon my rightOf solvency.

I’ve nursed it all a sultry summer night

This buffer ’twixt a rocky shore and me:

I elbow through the crowd upon my right

Of solvency.

Life still holds some potentialities!I feel myself a unit amongst men!But know, should thirst prevail, there wilts and diesA citizen.

Life still holds some potentialities!

I feel myself a unit amongst men!

But know, should thirst prevail, there wilts and dies

A citizen.

[161]The clink of glasses floats upon theair—Thirst’s fingers gripe me round the neck andchoke—One beerward step: and then a voice, “Beware!Dead broke! Dead broke!”

[161]The clink of glasses floats upon theair—

Thirst’s fingers gripe me round the neck andchoke—

One beerward step: and then a voice, “Beware!

Dead broke! Dead broke!”

Shallows to windward, breakers on the lee,I weigh and weigh the question, cons and pros,Till (wracked by indecision’s pangs) I seeThe last pub close.

Shallows to windward, breakers on the lee,

I weigh and weigh the question, cons and pros,

Till (wracked by indecision’s pangs) I see

The last pub close.

[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]

Ye comrades in shicker and cobbers in sin,Ye wrecks from the ranks of life’s crew,Who’ve tickled each barmaid under the chinAnd frivolled with nymphs in the Rue;Who’ve painted the town a magnificent red(All impressionist artists, I trow),Look here, in the light of the aftermath shed,Say, what do you think of it now?Oh, you’ve had a gay and a festive debauchIn regions where sanity reels,With Bacchus, wine-laden, ahead with his torch,And Nemesis close at your heels.And little you recked, as the glamour of wineSmoothed the lines of Life’s puckeringbrow—But own up and tell me, old cobbers of mine,Say, what do you think of it now?You’ve made the pace willing in numberless bars,You have sung, and recited, and yapped;You have slept a drunk’s sleep ’neath the pitying stars,You have squandered and borrowed andstrapped—[163]You have struck every note, the sublime to the lewd,But, alas, from Despondency’s slough,May I ask in a friendly and brotherly mood,Say, what do you think of it now?You have played the pied piper and danced the fool’s dance’Mid the smiles of well-ballasted men(By-and-by, when the devil is better perchanceYou will cut the same caper again.)But now, as you bare your scant locks to the blast,And re-register vow upon vow,May I ask, as a brother—the month that ispast—Say, what do you think of it now?

Ye comrades in shicker and cobbers in sin,

Ye wrecks from the ranks of life’s crew,

Who’ve tickled each barmaid under the chin

And frivolled with nymphs in the Rue;

Who’ve painted the town a magnificent red

(All impressionist artists, I trow),

Look here, in the light of the aftermath shed,

Say, what do you think of it now?

Oh, you’ve had a gay and a festive debauchIn regions where sanity reels,With Bacchus, wine-laden, ahead with his torch,And Nemesis close at your heels.And little you recked, as the glamour of wineSmoothed the lines of Life’s puckeringbrow—But own up and tell me, old cobbers of mine,Say, what do you think of it now?

Oh, you’ve had a gay and a festive debauch

In regions where sanity reels,

With Bacchus, wine-laden, ahead with his torch,

And Nemesis close at your heels.

And little you recked, as the glamour of wine

Smoothed the lines of Life’s puckeringbrow—

But own up and tell me, old cobbers of mine,

Say, what do you think of it now?

You’ve made the pace willing in numberless bars,You have sung, and recited, and yapped;You have slept a drunk’s sleep ’neath the pitying stars,You have squandered and borrowed andstrapped—[163]You have struck every note, the sublime to the lewd,But, alas, from Despondency’s slough,May I ask in a friendly and brotherly mood,Say, what do you think of it now?

You’ve made the pace willing in numberless bars,

You have sung, and recited, and yapped;

You have slept a drunk’s sleep ’neath the pitying stars,

You have squandered and borrowed andstrapped—

[163]You have struck every note, the sublime to the lewd,

But, alas, from Despondency’s slough,

May I ask in a friendly and brotherly mood,

Say, what do you think of it now?

You have played the pied piper and danced the fool’s dance’Mid the smiles of well-ballasted men(By-and-by, when the devil is better perchanceYou will cut the same caper again.)But now, as you bare your scant locks to the blast,And re-register vow upon vow,May I ask, as a brother—the month that ispast—Say, what do you think of it now?

You have played the pied piper and danced the fool’s dance

’Mid the smiles of well-ballasted men

(By-and-by, when the devil is better perchance

You will cut the same caper again.)

But now, as you bare your scant locks to the blast,

And re-register vow upon vow,

May I ask, as a brother—the month that ispast—

Say, what do you think of it now?

[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]

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