JONES plays the deuce with his grammar,
Knocks time and tense into tin-tacks ;
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WHEREAS ! L. Gordon having gone away
By virtue of the law we here decree
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PUT no faith in aught you meet with, friends or lovers,
new or old,
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WHENEVER you meet with a man from home
Who laughs at the falls and the fences here,
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'TWAS midst the battle's echoing din
And the cannon's thundering roar,
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CHARLEY Here I am at last
Quartered in my old position,
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An Episode in the Life of the Poet while in the
Mounted, Police Force in Australia
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I 'VE something of the bulldog in my breed,
The spaniel is developed rather less,
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FORREST
I've won the two tosses from Prescot;
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MELCHIOR
Surely, in the great beginning God made all things good, and still
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PLATE I
Rixa super mero
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GORDON'S LAST POEM
Tired and worn, and wearisome for love
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A man is independent of the world,
And little recks of strife or angry brawl,
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Lay me low, my work is done;
I am weary. Lay me low,
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The terrible night-watch is over,
I turn where I lie,
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WHITE steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar
On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom’s length from the shor
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'Tis a wicked world we live in;
Wrong in reason, wrong in rhyme;
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All night I've heard the marsh-frog's croak,
The jay's rude matins now prevail,
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Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes
Emolht mores, nee sinit esseferos,
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THERE'S lots of refusing and falls and mishaps.
Who 's down on the Chestnut ? He 's hurt himself p'raps.
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Through the lattice rushes the south wind, dense With fumes of the flowery frankincense
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I'll tell you a story; but pass the "jack", And let us make merry to-night, my men.
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Oh! the sun rose on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie,
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On the hill they are crowding together, In the stand they are crushing for room,
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Sunlight On The Sea [The Philosophy of a Feast]
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With short, sharp violent lights made vivid,
To the southward far as the sight can roam,
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You'll take my tale with a little salt; But it needs none, nevertheless!
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"You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
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We severed in Autumn early,
Ere the earth was torn by the plough;
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So, Maurice, you sail to-morrow, you say?
And you may or may not return
194 lines, 1 comment
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