English

When Silas married Rhody Spence,
Folks thought 'twas kind o' funny;
They argied he was lackin' sense,
Cos she was lackin' money.

But pretty? Bless ye! She was pink
An' plump as any pippin;
An' when she giv' Si' Blois the wink
She sent three others skippin'.

Now, lots o' girls aroun' our place
Had set their caps for Silas,
An' 'twixt his money an' her face
Things seemed to sort o' rile us.

Them was the days when weddin' rings
Was weighed by friends and minions

Thrice hail the still unconquered King of Song!
For all adore and love the Master Art
That reareth his throne in temple of the heart;
And smiteth chords of passion full and strong
Till music sweet allures the sorrowing throng!
Then by the gentle curving of his bow
Maketh every mellow note in cadence flow,
To recompense the world of all its wrong.
Although the earth is full of cares and throes
That tempt the crimson stream of life to cloy,
Thou mak'st glad hearts and trip'st “fantastic toes,”

They knew, those gone, bent backs, the lash's out
On crimsoning and shudd'ring flesh and thirst
And hunger and all weariness, yet durst
Nor pause, nor rest; but toil and toil till shut
Of day sent them to fall in noisome hut
Herded e'en in sleep Tortured, accursed,
These knew this life as death and death at worst
A peace when earth above their bones was put

But we, their children, bone of them and blood
Bound by new fetters, tortured still, have seen
A light: We know that soul and mind are free

Oh where have you been all the day
That you have been so long away?
Oh, I have been a woodland child,
And walked alone in places wild,
Bright eyes peered at me everywhere,
And voices filled the evening air;
All sounds of furred and feathered things,
The footfall soft, the whirr of wings.
Oh, I have seen grey squirrels play
At hide-and-seek the live-long day;
And baby rabbits full of fun
Poked out their noses in the sun,
And, unafraid, played there with me
In that still place of greenery.
A thousand secrets I have heard

1. O thou whose gracious presence shone A
2. Thy grace and truth, thy life that shed Un-
light to bless thy fellow men, To
dying radiance through all time, Thy
thee we fondly turn again, As
tender love, thy faith sublime, Re-
to a friend that we have known.
membering these, we break the bread.

3. And lo! again we seem to hear
Thy blessing on the loaf and cup;
The presence that was lifted up
Again to loving hearts brought near.

4. Our lesser lives, thus touching thine,
Are joined, with all the pure and good,

O Master of the common weal,
The shop, the field, the market place!
Thou knowest all the pangs we feel.
Thou knowest all our need of grace;
And where the world's injustice goads
The weary, on the climbing roads,
Stoop once again with tender voice,
Though clanging discord fills the air,
To whisper hope and bid rejoice
All who the world's oppression bear.
O Master of the toiling clan,
Thou Son of God! Thou Son of Man!

O Master of the common weal,
The shop, the field, the market place!

O hill-hung city of my West,
Where oft my heart goes home to rest,
There came an hour when all went by,
A cruel splendor on the sky.

Out of the Earth men saw advance
The front of Ruin and old Chance.
A groan of chaos shook your frame,
And a red wilderness of flame
Darkened the nations with your name.

Now, sons of the West, I see you rise,
The world's young courage in your eyes.
Sons of broad-shouldered Pioneers,
Seasoned by struggle and stern tears—
I see you rising, girt and strong,

O' de wurl' ain't flat,
An' de wurl' ain't roun',
H'it's one long strip
Hangin' up an' down—
Jes' Souf an' Norf;
Jes' Norf an' Souf.

Talkin' 'bout sailin' 'round de wurl'—
Huh! I'd be so dizzy my head 'ud twurl.
If dis heah earf wuz jes' a ball
You no the people all 'ud fall.

O' de wurl' ain't flat,
An' de wurl' ain't roun',
H'it's one long strip
Hangin' up an' down—
Jes' Souf an' Norf;
Jes' Norf an' Souf.

Talkin' 'bout the City whut Saint John saw—
Chile you oughta go to Saginaw;

Now, fie on foolish love! It not befits
Or man or woman know it;
Love was not meant for people in their wits,
And they that fondly show it
Betray the straw and feathers in their brain,
And shall have Bedlam for their pain.
If single love be such a curse,
To marry is to make it ten times worse.

Not mine to draw the cloth-yard shaft
From straining palm to thrilling ear;
Then launch it through the monster's hulk,
One thrust, from front to rear.

Mine is the Bushman's tiny bow,
Whose wounds the foeman hardly feels;
He laughs, and lifts his hand to smite,
Then suddenly he reels.