A young man of strong body, weakened by hunger, sat on the walker's portion of the street stretching his hand toward all who passed, begging and repeating his hand toward all who passed, begging and repeating the sad song of his defeat in life, while suffering from hunger and from humiliation.
When night came, his lips and tongue were parched, while his hand was still as empty as his stomach.
I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.
I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.
And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May."
Anonymous submission.
Once to the song and chariot-fight,
Where all the tribes of Greece unite
On Corinth's isthmus joyously,
The god-loved Ibycus drew nigh.
On him Apollo had bestowed
The gift of song and strains inspired;
So, with light staff, he took his road
From Rhegium, by the godhead fired.
Acrocorinth, on mountain high,
Now burns upon the wanderer's eye,
And he begins, with pious dread,
Poseidon's grove of firs to tread.
Naught moves around him, save a swarm
Of cranes, who guide him on his way;
Baby, O baby, fain you are for bed,
Magpie to mopoke busy as the bee;
The little red calf’s in the snug cow-shed,
An’ the little brown bird’s in the tree.
Daddy’s gone a-shearin’, down the Castlereagh,
So we’re all alone now, only you an’ me.
All among the wool-O, keep your wide blades full-O!
Daddy thinks o’ baby, wherever he may be.
Baby, my baby, rest your drowsy head,
The one man that works here, tired you must be,
The little red calf ’s in the snug cow-shed,
Her palace plac'd beneath a muddy road,
And such the influence of the dull abode,
The carrier's horse above can scarcely drag his load.
Here chose the goddess her belov'd retreat,
Which Phoebus tries in vain to penetrate;
Adorn'd within with shells of small expense,
(Emblems of tinsel rhyme and trifling sense),
Perpetual fogs enclose the sacred cave,
The neighbouring sinks their fragrant odours gave;
In contemplation here she pass'd her hours,
Closely attended by subservient powers:
It may have been the pride in me for aught
I know, or just a patronizing whim;
But call it freak of fancy, or what not,
I cannot hide the hungry face of him.
I keep a scant half-dozen words he said,
And every now and then I lose his name;
He may be living or he may be dead,
But I must have him with me all the same.
I knew it and I knew it all along,--
And felt it once or twice, or thought I did;
But only as a glad man feels a song
That sounds around a stranger's coffin lid.
I dreamt a dream at the midnight deep,
When fancies come and go
To vex a man in his soothing sleep
With thoughts of awful woe --
I dreamed that I was the corner man
Of a nigger minstrel show.
I cracked my jokes, and the building rang
With laughter loud and long;
I hushed the house as I softly sang
An old plantation song --
A tale of the wicked slavery days
Of cruelty and wrong.
A small boy sat on the foremost seat --
A mirthful youngster he,
He beat the time with his restless feet
Cut yer name across me backbone
Stretch me skin across a drum
Iron me up to Pinchgut Island
From today till Kingdon Come!
I will eat yer Norfolk dumplings
Like a juicy spanish plum
Even dance the Newgate Hornpipe
If ye'll only give me Rum!
As at sunset I was straying
Silently the wood along,
Damon on his flute was playing,
And the rocks gave back the song,
So la, Ia!
Softly tow'rds him then he drew me;
Sweet each kiss he gave me then!
And I said, "Play once more to me!"
And he kindly play'd again,
So la, la!
All my peace for aye has fleeted,
All my happiness has flown;
Yet my ears are ever greeted
With that olden, blissful tone,
So la, la!
Conquistador, set in the iron armor,
I gaily follow the outgoing star,
I go over precipices, harbors
And rest in joyful groves, so far.
Oh, how wild and starless heaven's shelter!
The haze is growing, but, silent, I must wait.
Conquistador, in iron armor set,
I'll find my love, find it sooner or later.
And if the stars are void of midday words,
I shall myself create them for the worlds,
And warmly charm them by the songs of battles.
I am a brother to the gulfs and storms,
