Came his cronies, some to gaze

Rapt in wonder; some

Free with counsel; some with praise;

Some with envy dumb.

"May he," many a gossip cried,

"Be from peril kept";

Father hid his face and sighed,

Mother turned and wept.

Joseph Skipsey

HOW'S MY BOY?

"Ho, Sailor of the sea!

How's my boy-my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sail'd he?"

"My boy John

He that went to sea

What care I for the ship, sailor?

My boy 's my boy to me.

"You come back from sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have ask'd some landsman

Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish

"How's my boy-my boy?

And unless you let me know

I'll swear you are no sailor,

Blue jacket or no,

Brass buttons or no, sailor,

Anchor or crown or no!

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton" "Speak low, woman, speak low!" "And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor?" "That good ship went down."

"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I was never aboard her.

66

Be she afloat or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, Her owners can afford her!

I say how's my John?"

Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy

my boy?

THE SAD MOTHER

O WHEN the half-light weaves

Wild shadows on the floor, How ghostly come the withered leaves

Stealing about my door! !

I sit and hold my breath,

Lone in the lonely house ; Naught breaks the silence still as death,

Only a creeping mouse.

The patter of leaves, it may be,

But liker patter of feet,
The small feet of my own baby

That never felt the heat.

The small feet of my son,

Cold as the graveyard sod;
My little, durnb, unchristened one

That may not win to God. “Come in, dear babe," I cry,

Opening the door so wide.
The leaves go stealing softly by;

How dark it is outside!

And though I kneel and pray

Long on the threshold-stone The little feet press on their way, And I am ever alone.

Katharine Tynan Hinkson

AN ABORIGINAL MOTHER'S

LAMENT

STILL farther would I fly, my child,

To make thee safer yet,
From the upsparing white man,

With his dread hand murder-wet!
I'll bear thee on as I have borne

With stealthy steps wind-fleet, But the dark night shrouds the forest,

And thorns are in my feet.

O moan not! I would give this braid

Thy father's gift to me But for a single palmful

Of water now for thee.

no more

Ah! spring not to his name
To glad us may

he come He is smoldering into ashes

Beneath the blasted gum :
All charred and blasted by the fire

The white man kindled there,
And fed with our slaughtered kindred

Till heaven-high went its glare !

And but for thee, I would their fire

Had eaten me as fast!
Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry
Yet lengthening up the blast!

But no-when his bound hands had signed
The way that we should fly,

On the roaring pyre flung bleeding—
I saw thy father die!

No more shall his loud tomahawk
Be plied to win our cheer,
Or the shining fish pools darken
Beneath his shadowing spear:
The fading tracks of his fleet foot
Shall guide not as before,
And the mountain-spirits mimic
His hunting call no more!

O moan not! I would give this braid

Thy father's gift to me

For but a single palmful

Of water now for thee.

Charles Harpur

LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee

last.

Those lips are thine, -thy own sweet smile

I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced

me;