In the silent park is a scent of clover, And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more as the swans fly over Their far-off clamour from overhead. They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his fate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mighty power with a purpose dread.
He came from 'further out', That land of heat and drought And dust and gravel. He got a touch of sun, And rested at the run Until his cure was done, And he could travel.
When spring had decked the plain, He flitted off again As flit the swallows. And from that western land, When many months were spanned, A letter came to hand, Which read as follows:
'Dear sir, I take my pen In hopes that all your men And you are hearty. You think that I've forgot Your kindness, Mr. Scott, Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not That sort of party.
'You sometimes bet, I know, Well, now you'll have a show The 'books' to frighten. Up here at Wingadee Young Billy Fife and me We're training Strife, and he Is a all right 'un.
'Just now we're running byes, But, sir, first time he tries I'll send you word of. And running 'on the crook' Their measures we have took, It is the deadest hook You ever heard of.
'So when we lets him go, Why, then, I'll let you know, And you can have a show To put a mite on. Now, sir, my leave I'll take, Yours truly, William Blake. P.S. -- Make no mistake, _HE'S A ALL RIGHT 'UN_.'
By next week's _RIVERINE_ I saw my friend had been A bit too cunning. I read: 'The racehorse Strife And jockey William Fife Disqualified for life -- Suspicious running.'
But though they spoilt his game, I reckon all the same I fairly ought to claim My friend a white 'un. For though he wasn't straight, His deeds would indicate His heart at any rate Was 'a all right 'un'.
Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away. It seems that he didn't suit 'em -- they thought that they'd like a change, So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range. They seemed to be restless people -- and, judging by what you hear, They raise up these revolutions 'bout two or three times a year; And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundary _QUICK_, For there isn't no vote by ballot -- it's bullets that does the trick. And it ain't like a real battle, where the prisoners' lives are spared, And they fight till there's one side beaten and then there's a truce declared,