With my

"Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!

[Is it naught to you that hear and pass me

by?]

But the word-the word is mine, when the

order moves the line

And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.

The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre-
[O the blue below the little fisher huts!]
That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire,
Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!
By the wisdom of the centuries I speak—
To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth-
I, the joy of life unquestioned-I, the Greek-
I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!

With my

"Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”

[What d'ye lack, my noble masters? What d'ye lack?]

So I draw the world together link by link:

Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!

THE LINER SHE'S A LADY.

THE Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds

The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er all she

needs;

But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas

roun',

They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down!

Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the

Yard,

All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard;

Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old

Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!

Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task

That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask." Whereat the withered flower, all content,

Died as they die whose days are innocent;

While he who questioned why the flower fell

Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.

THE SONG OF THE BANJO.

You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile--
You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp-
You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile,

And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
I travel with the cooking-pots and pails-

I'm sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork-
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!

With my "Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!"
[Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!]
So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop;
So I play 'em up to water and to bed.

In the silence of the camp before the fight,

When it's good to make your will and say your

prayer,

You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight
Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,

Of the Patently Impossible and Vain

And when the Thing that Couldn't has occurred,
Give me time to change my leg and go again.

With my "Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!" In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled

There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,

I-the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,

In the silence of the herder's hut alone

In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,

Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess

I am Memory and Torment-I am Town!

I am all that ever went with evening dress!